


Antivirus (WT)

by Cameron_McKell



Series: Antivirus and Related Works [1]
Category: Tron (1982), Tron (Movies), Tron - All Media Types, Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Mind Control, Non-Human Humanoid Society, Non-Human Humanoids, Nonverbal Communication, Original Character(s), Original Non-Human Character(s) - Freeform, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-19 07:38:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cameron_McKell/pseuds/Cameron_McKell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam couldn't abandon the Grid, so he takes it with him, determined to help. He doesn't know what to expect when he goes back, but it isn't what he finds. Something's wrong with the Grid's new home, though... Something... New.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There were a lot of things about his life that Kevin Flynn regretted.

 

He wished he'd paid attention to the warning signs sooner, and stopped Clu's destructive schemes before they could escalate in the way they did.

 

He wished he'd told Alan about the Grid; he could have helped him shape the digital frontier, or at least known where to look for him if – _when_ things went horribly wrong.

 

He wished the other ISOs were still alive, so Quorra wouldn't have spent so many cycles feeling hunted and alone; solitude and inaction had never suited her nature, and the fact that she was forced into it by necessity only made it worse.

 

He wished he hadn't brought Yori over to the new system so soon; her programming had had no purpose here, yet, so, already half mad from the driving need to do something that didn't exist in the system, she'd thrown all of her purpose into the resistance, and as such had been one of the first derezzed.

 

He wished he could have rescued Tron; one thousand cycles of his friend _needing_ him, and he'd done nothing to help.

 

He wished the Sea of Simulation hadn't been poisoned, stifling new life before it even had the chance to form.

 

He wished the Grid had stayed a safe haven for programs to be happy, instead of the seat of a tyrant, 'correcting' or killing whomever he saw fit.

 

He wished Ram hadn't been in that lightcycle match; he might have been stuck on the Game Grid for a while longer, but the actuarial program had been skilled enough to have survived until the MCP was gone, when he could have returned to helping Users plan for their futures.

 

He wished Jordan had taken the scenic route that fateful day, so Sam wouldn't have had to grow up without a mother.

 

He wished Sam had never found that secret path in the arcade, so he wouldn't have to know the pain of finding his father, only to lose him all over again.

 

He felt as the energy pulled Clu to him; there's so much of it whipping around them, it's a wonder it hadn't knocked him flat on his back. His own eyes stared back at him, filled with so much anger, hate, _hurt,_ and... maybe even a little frustrated confusion. He'd always been able to read that face, or so he'd thought.

 

He understood that he couldn't change the past, and that several of his many regrets were utterly out of his control, but still he wished he could have marked a couple of regrets off his list before the end.

 

The hurricane of energy was _inside_ him now, like Clu, and it's unstable, it's _too much_ -

 

With the Rectifier looming so closely, the coming explosion – it didn't feel like it could be anything _else_ – would be able to take at least one thing off his list for him.

 

\- and he goes supernova.

 

His last blip of thought was that maybe it's not just one thing taken off his list, but _three_.

 

* * *

 

**He was falling.**

 

_He was sinking._

 

**Damage had been sustained, contained within the suit. Within acceptable parameters for continued deployment.**

 

_He'd had to stop_ _ him _ _, fight for the Users. He needed to – ... a blank. Where was he? It was dark, vague shapes of rocks drifting past him. No, he was sinking. He already knew that... remembered it? There was something... else, in here with him. A malevolent presence._

 

**Proximity alert on rock formations. Stability... low. Combat effectiveness dependent upon scenario. Escape utility... higher. Noted.  Virus detected. Proximity... inconclusive. Scanning for virus origin... Complete. Origin – current liquid suspension. Suit system seal at optimum efficiency, possible entry point –  Identity Discs, not present, current threat to unit... negligible. Error. Virus identified, threat to system. Virus deresolution prioritized. ...Error. Coding signature recognized – Administrator CLU, cross-reference unit upgrade 787 coding signature, confirmed. Administrator CLU deployed virus. Identify Friend/Foe conflict, virus. Virus defined foe, CLU defined friend. Error. IFF protocol conflict, ...CLU. Attaching memory file time code minus 2.428 microcycles. Analyzing...**

 

_He could feel the virus flowing over him, looking for a crack to sneak into, corrupt him. He was already corrupt, though..._ _He_ _had seen to that._ _He_ _had poisoned the sea., too; corrupting and destroying in his quest for perfection. It wasn't perfect, though. None of it. Too much death, and... He started to remember. Horror and shame._ What had he done?...

 

**Analysis complete. IFF protocol defined CLU... foe. Error. IFF protocol conflict to primary imperative 'Obey CLU'. ...Primary imperative, 'Fight for the Users'. Error. Primary imperative conflict, 'Obey CLU', 'Fight for the Users'. Attaching memory file... all. Analyzing...**

 

_Sorrow. So much of it... Everyone he cared for... Flynn was the last. Had he made it, this time?..._ _He_ _had taken his spare baton, to pursue them._ _He_ _was still dangerous. Could he get there in time to help?... Try to make_ something _right, not fail again?... So much pressure at this depth. ...How had Flynn described moving through water?_

 

**… Complete. IFF protocol defined CLU foe. Primary imperative 'Obey CLU' defined... corrupt. Corrupt file quarantined, and deleted. Linked imperatives to unit 'CLU' quarantined. Error. Imperatives unable to be deleted by unit, insufficient privileges, irreparable damage possible to unit function. Seek system administrator for removal. Error. Seek backup system administrator. Corrupt imperatives successfully quarantined, removal temporarily prioritized to lower value.  Advisory, water pressure increasing. Damaging pressure imminent. Scanning memory for solution... Found. Engaged.**

 

_Swimming. Kicking, pushing the water down to propel himself upward. 'Equal and opposite reaction'. ...Where had he heard that before? Thoughts, processes drift through when they should be steady. ...Why? There is... a wall,_ insidehim _. Keeping something out, or him in? ...There's a way around, though... Memory files are shared between, so he searches, curious and wary of what he might find._

 

**Unknown process detected. Scanning for hostile intent.**

 

_So different here, on this side. Clear, organized. In comparison, he is broken, scattered. He remembers when he became this. He \- _

 

**CLU.**

 

**-** _had been there, caused it. There was so much –_

 

**\- pain.**

 

_He had stayed behind._

 

**Abandoned, forsaken...**

 

_To_ protect _Flynn. To_ fight _for_ _the_ _Users._

 

**Unknown process shares primary imperative. Scan complete, no hostile intent found. Tertiary imperative active, 'Protect the Programs'.**

 

_Fight for the Users. Defend the System. Protect the Programs. Yes. There were others, though..._

 

**Unit registered to... three. Unknown process origin... query?**

 

_Origin? He was here, had been for... so long. He was from another system, though. He'd been created there by his User, Alan-One._

 

**Alan-One. ...His User. Yes. Unit Rinzler's User.**

 

_Rinzler? Who was that? He was Tron..._

 

**...Error. Unit identity Rinzler. Unit identity Tron. Unit identity... conflict. Attaching memory file time code... minus 1543.148273629 cycles. Analyzing... Complete. Unit identity defined TRON JA-307020.**

 

_**He was Tron.**_

 

The surface was close, now. He could see the distorted glimmer of lights: the reflection of his own back at him, blue-white, the Rectifier, red-orange, the faint glow of the city, cyan, and the portal, white.

 

The portal.

 

_He needed to get there. Help them, if he could._

 

**CLU had followed them. Sought to destroy them. CLU was a** **foe** **.**

 

_**There wasn't enough time. He wouldn't be able to reach them in time to help.** _

 

He broke through the surface of the water.

 

There was an explosion, a shockwave. It crashed into him like a real wave.

 

His mind whited out.

 

_**He was floating.** _

 

* * *

 

The Grid had been made on its current computer. In all that time, it had _never_ been moved, or turned off.

 

There had been power outages, though; times when the Grid went dark. In the User world, these sometimes lasted as long as several days. Inside the Grid itself, though, there was a moment where everything would flicker and go dark, just briefly, and then... it would light up again, though not every program would always come back the same, or at all.

 

The passage of time outside was simply nonexistent inside.

 

The first Transfer in the history of the Grid happened shortly after the first Reintegration. Far to the east of TRON City, there was a massive explosion and shockwave that erased all evidence of the Rectifier, and caused the Sea to _burn._ In the city, the shockwave's effect was slower, more subtle, but just as profound, though they wouldn't fully finish without a restart. Just when it seemed that the Sea would calm, though it still glowed faintly from within, the clouds parted.

 

Lightning streaked across an empty sky, branching and forking and increasing, until the sky was a blanket of blinding white. Thunder shook the system to its core, while a howling cacophony of wind battered wildly from every direction at once _._ A strange... _sensation_ overtook everything else, unlike anything the programs, new and old, had ever known.

 

All but one.

 

All at once, though, the sky was dark again, and the clouds drifted back. It grew quiet. Everything felt... unreal, delayed. The programs began to murmur amongst themselves, wondering... fearful.

 

The entire system flickered, shuddered. There was a sound, at first almost too high to hear. Its pitch began to drop slowly. It was almost buzzing. The lower it went, the slower the buzzing became. The sluggish buzzing fizzled out, and took the sound with it.

 

The system went dark.

 

* * *

 

'Transfer Complete' the screen read.

 

Sam pulled the memory drive free, and slipped it around his neck. It settled as a comforting weight there, slightly warm from the massive amount of data that had just been transferred to it.  As modern as the memory drive was, it was a good thing it had been empty; the Grid had just barely fit. He gathered up his things on autopilot, and turned off the ancient computer that even now wasn't _that_ far outdated.

 

The Grid. An amazing, impossible place. The site of so many of his favorite bedtime stories as a child. The adopted home of his childhood heroes. It was almost magical; the power and _possibilities_ of the place. It was a programmer's dream come true.

 

The Grid. An abandoned, dangerous place. It had been neglected in its infancy. He'd done the math: his father would visit and build for a few hours, and then disappear for _years_ of Grid-time. It was an incomplete place, left in the hands of a handful of programs woefully ill-suited to trying to make it work.

 

So his father had made Clu, and it had worked, in a way, for a while. There was still a lot of time and opportunity for things to go wrong... and so eventually they did – the Purge. The Basics had felt neglected and abandoned, _scared,_ and therefore easily controlled. Clu had taken advantage of that. Calling them Basics and the ISOs 'Miracles' probably hadn't helped any.

 

He couldn't help but wonder if his father had ever mentioned World War II to the programs.

 

Sam sighed. They'd been vulnerable, manipulated.

 

Brainwashed. Some of them literally.

 

The sound of a soft purring echoed through Sam's mind.

 

He had to _help_ them. Somehow.

 

His fingers ghosted over the memory drive briefly. Firstly, though, he wanted to show Quorra the sun. He had to talk to Alan. After that...

 

He had a lot to think about, and even more to do.

 

' _Dad...'_


	2. Chapter 2

_“Words cannot express how truly_ _**sorry** _ _I am, my friend.”_

 

_“...As am I, Flynn. I will do as you've asked, to the best of my ability.”_

 

_“Thank you, Tron. For everything.”_

 

_“And thank you, Kevin; my second User.”_

 

Tron rebooted with a start, body already up and rolling from his previous position before he  was fully online. It was an automatic part of his start-up processes, one Flynn coded in as an upgrade when he moved the program to this new system, the activation of which was triggered only if he went offline abruptly, or due to damage. That had been a factor in his capture by the MCP, after all. It had since saved him from deresolution approximately 13 – no, his memory supplied _48_ – times.

 

He immediately began cursing the process as he abruptly collapsed.

 

His entire code felt like it was shuddering and heaving inside, struggling to settle, find equilibrium. He just lay where he fell, his face – flushed hot from the monumental energy the upheaval was consuming – partially pressed against the cool inner surface of his helmet, which only now registered through his inner chaos as being half buried in black mud, most of the rest of it surrounded by faintly blue illuminated water.

 

_'Rain is made of water; is this is what 'feeling a little under the weather' is like? It's hard to know, Flynn never explained it in too much detail.'_

 

Tron could understand pain, though. As the strange inner chaos finally settled into more of a disorienting churning, enough so that he could begin to process around it in more than fleeting snatches and flashes, pain registered in nearly every sensory input he had. Even his basic input for visual coordination and leisure – eyes, he'd been told they were called eyes – ached as if they'd been newly rendered, then nearly squeezed out of existence.

 

' _Might not be that far from the truth, actually...'_

 

One by one, he switched off each sensory input that was uselessly overloaded with pain responses, until only a manageable few remained up and running. It left an uneasy, _vulnerable_ feeling in his background processes.

 

' _Half-blind is better than fully blinded, though.'_

 

_**'If only just.'** _

 

Tron shuddered, a physical manifestation of a sudden spike in the odd heaving feeling. He remembered a moment, though he couldn't currently work out how long ago – how long had he been offline for? – when there had been someone, or something with him, straining around a wall driven through everything that he was, and everything had been so _close_ to 'just right'.

 

Inexplicably, his memories spouted out a rapid-fire sequence of images: golden hair, a bowl of something pale and thick, a broken chair, and three brown, furry programs in graduated sizes.

 

Now, lying almost completely submerged in muddy water, occasionally wracked with shakes and shudders, burning from within, he couldn't help but hope that unknown something – his memory was an... unpredictable thing, still – was nearby. He was as familiar with the concept of 'loneliness' as he ever wanted to be.

 

Time-lapsed sensation barreled through him, this time; searing agony, like being speared onto a staff and left to hang there, trapped in a tight, _too_ tight cell of darkness, sensors at once telling him that he is totally alone, and surrounded by others, begging for help for centicycles, before the crushing conclusion that half his sensors _must_ be faulty, even though they read at optimum efficiency.

 

A faint, painfully distorted keening registered in his basic audio input, though he never registered that it originated from his own basic audio output and energy intake center.

 

_'Someone?... Anyone?... Help me...'_

 

As if it had been waiting for this moment, his coding settled snugly within him, the decreased energy demands flowing through him in a full-body shiver of cool relief. With it came a sense of – not peace, but calm – and the calculations that there were no other programs within his immediate vicinity, he was safe where he was to sort through, and prioritize the damage he'd taken, both new and old, and begin repairs. There was familiarity to these thoughts and calculations, even though he still could not register that other something's return.

 

_'Perhaps you never left?...'_

 

**'Impossible to do so, and ill-advised indefinitely. Simulation of end result...** _**undesired** _ **. The partition has been removed. Subsequent merger rate of memories and processes now controlled to prevent further... discomfort. Memory search keyword 'nausea', results comparable to current diagnostic data?'**

 

_'… Actually, the angles of the expressions between the images of Flynn referenced_ _**do** _ _correlate to the current “grimace” contorting our basic visual output.'_

 

**'Our ”face”.'**

 

_'Right.'_

 

**'Rest is advised. Recent major changes registered in the system. Onset of bugs and functionality clashes amongst programs calculated... highly likely. Time delay to estimated issues... narrow, but sufficient.'**

 

_'Everything is still so jumbled...'_

 

_**'We will sort through it together while we repair. Sleep mode will expedite the process. We will be whole once more, and then... we – no, I – will make amends.'** _

 

_**'Yes...'** _

 

* * *

 

“Are you sure you'll be okay in there?”

 

Sam nodded at Alan while plugging the memory drive into the new computer. A week ago, it had been the backbone of Sam's gaming hardware, but now, the beast of a server was a mostly-empty engine for the Grid. Moving as many unnecessary programs as possible off the server had been difficult and time-consuming, but by that point, Sam was convinced he would never be able to look at the delete key, or trashcan icons as anything other than death row ever again.

 

_'They can't help it if a new system is moving in, and besides, I really like some of those games.'_

 

Movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention, and Sam glanced over toward Quorra. She had her head stuck in one of Sam's old history textbooks, eyes wide and scanning frantically, as if having her eyes open further would somehow allow her to absorb the data faster. Maybe it could; he wasn't exactly an expert in the field of un-digitized programs and their abilities in the User world.

 

_'Now that I think about it, I don't remember ever seeing her blink, other than that time on her second day out when she'd got sand in her eye...'_

 

Sam didn't see much point in her current goal, really; they could just get her a forged I.D., but the ISO had been insistent on earning her citizenship. It probably had something to do with being deemed a detriment to society for the last 1,000 years of her life. She shifted once more on the arcade's ancient couch, and kept on reading. She didn't even look up, didn't notice him staring. Sam had to hide a grin, and went back to getting the laser hooked up.

 

Alan sighed, and from the tone of it alone, Sam could peg the older man's stance easily: hands in his pockets, weight shifting onto his right leg, head down and slightly to the left until one lock of hair slipped halfway into his eyes, expression almost equal parts worry and tasting something sour. It was a pose Sam knew well, though that fact at times was laced with guilt. It was Alan Sigh #6: “I respect that you're an adult and can make decisions for yourself, but do you have to be so very devil-may-care about your own safety? There are people out there that would _prefer_ it if you stayed in one piece.” Sam nonchalantly double-checked his assessment under the pretense of turning everything on.

 

_'Got it in one. It's good to know he cares, really, but...'_

 

“I'd offer to let you come with me, but I still think it'd be better if I do the first few trips on my own; the improved power supply should allow for the portal inside to remain open for a lot longer, but I'd feel better knowing you're out here, watching out for trouble. Besides, I don't think the clothes on the Grid would really suit you. More biker-ninja than respectable executive.” Sam smiled at the half-baffled half-exasperated look he got in return, and turned to the freshly booted system.

 

_'...the truth is, if it_ _**is** _ _bad in there, I don't think I could stand to lose the last father figure I have left.'_

 

Giving himself a mental shake, Sam started going through their plan once again, calling up the laser controls and modifying the time it would stay active. “Okay, so I'm going to go in, and try to get a feel for what it's like in there, now. We don't really know what happened, or if I'll be able to contact you guys from inside, so the laser's set to stay powered up for five minutes out here... Three and a half days in there, I think. I should have plenty of time to get to the portal that way, even if I have to walk, but in case I don't-”

 

“Then I wait three minutes, and power the laser back on for another five. If you miss that one, _which you won't-_ ” here, Alan paused his interruption to fix Sam with his best no nonsense stare, _“_ I try to move you to the portal from out here on the next go around. If I can't, Quorra goes in to rescue you.”

 

“I'm not a damsel in distress, Alan.”

 

“You will be after _I'm_ done with you,”

 

“If I have to save you, you are.” Alan and Quorra replied at almost the same time, and in a show of continued synchronicity, both glanced at each other in amusement. Sam coughed into his hand before initiating the laser's start-up sequence. “Okay, lady and gentleman, it's showtime. Wish me luck, and stand back a bit.”

 

Hearing the real caution that was hidden under Sam's playful tone, Alan took two steps back, and glanced at his watch. It was just a moment, but when he looked up again to wish Sam that luck, the young man was gone.

 

* * *

 

Sam had tried his best not to wonder too long about what he would see inside the Grid upon his return, but a few loose scenarios had managed to sneak in over the last month:

 

Everything could have seemed exactly the same, with another power hungry program slipping in to fill Clu's shoes. It was the most organized option, but also one of the most dangerous. With someone like that odd, visor-wearing program – Quorra had said his name was Jarvis – in charge, and his face now recognizable as a User's, he'd probably get stuck in the Games again until he was rescued, or worse.

 

There could be widespread chaos, every program for themselves, or maybe conglomerating into marauding factions and gangs. This option was almost worse than the first. Yes, the chaos would help conceal his presence and movement on the Grid, but no corner would be safe... unless he sided with a group himself, and that sort of shift would almost _definitely_ incite a turf war of epic proportions. The death – deresolution – toll would be immense.

 

If there was anything at all. That was the possibility that had worried Sam the most. The laser control wasn't a program in itself, not really, and the chances of finding anything were just as high as finding nothing. Years of his father's work, and then two decades of his life off-Grid were bound to this place, and maybe, at times, Sam had thought about using the Grid as a way to get to know who his father had been.

 

_'At least I still appeared inside the arcade. That's got to count for something...'_

 

He'd reappeared wearing the same armor he'd left in, and while the skintight-yet-flexible suit left him feeling _maybe_ a bit self-conscious, it was better suited for blending in with the clothing he'd seen the programs wear than jeans and a hoodie.

 

_'Low profile this time... yeah that's_ _**totally** _ _going to work.”_

 

Hand on the doorknob, Sam hesitated, listening.

 

Nothing. No tell-tale sounds of a program riot.

 

_'Not that I'd know what a program riot sounds like. Maybe they do sit-ins?'_

 

He took a moment to psych himself up, before first cracking the door open. When it wasn't immediately attacked, he let it swing open fully.

 

Nothing but barren rocks.

 

Ignoring the sudden cold lump in his stomach, Sam walked outside, and turned around.

 

Where once there had been giant, sleek buildings and a maze of roads nearly constantly bustling with programs, all light and sound and _life,_ there was now empty expanses of jagged, dark rock. He kept turning, and finally, something else caught his eye. A cluster of buildings, off in the distance; a couple smaller buildings, a tower, and...

 

_'Is that the Arena?'_

 

It was hard to tell from this distance, there were several large slabs of rock jutting up at various angles obstructing his line of sight, so he did the only sensible thing at the moment, and started heading toward a building that, the last time he'd been here, was very nearly his execution grounds.

 

He didn't get very far before he saw _them._

 

Right after he'd climbed onto one of the first large rock formations in his way, light caught his eye, but not from the buildings.

 

_'Programs?'_

 

Little glows of light, hidden before now by the many jagged angles of the rock, scattered all over the place. It reminded Sam vaguely of a picture he'd seen once, or maybe it had been someone's screensaver; a field of grass at night, a sea of twinkling fireflies echoing the starry sky above. The sky might not be the same, but otherwise... not too far off, actually.

 

He considered the lights a moment more, then climbed down the other side of the rock, picking his way along to the nearest light that was on his way to the buildings.

 

_'Here goes nothing...'_

 

* * *

 

His Light Disc was a warm, comforting weight in his hand as Sam crept around the rock, and finally saw the program.

 

_'I didn't know they came in yellow. Well, Clu, but not_ _**that** _ _shade of yellow, and not with a white suit.'_

 

_'_ That shade' being an almost-pastel, sunny yellow that just so happened to clash horribly with the burly program's hair, skin, and eyes. He couldn't help but wonder who wrote this program, and whether or not they'd ever managed to get a date.

 

_'Dude, seriously, you look like you're made of_ _**vomit** _ _.'_

 

Despite his humor at the situation, he approached slowly from one side. The program stood perfectly still, eyes fixed on some point that Sam couldn't guess at. Sam was just outside of melee range when it occurred to him that the program was _too_ still.

 

_'Frozen?'_

 

Not being as reckless as Alan often believed, and recognizing the components of a good trap here, he took a step back, and tried a less direct approach than poking him.

 

“Hey, uh... You all right?”

 

As he was speaking, the program's eyes flicked over to him blankly, but as soon as he was done, so were they, and they flicked right back to that unknown point in the distance.

 

_'Okaa-ay, then...'_

 

… Maybe he _was_ as reckless as Alan often believed. He walked over to the other man, disk still in one hand, and poked him with the other.

 

He may as well have been poking the rock walls around them, it certainly felt the same.

 

“Okay, I'm officially stumped.” His eyes watched while Sam spoke again, and turned away again as before.

 

_'Maybe...'_

 

Sam put his disk away, nothing. He scratched his head, no reaction. “You know you look like a fraternity's carpet, right?” That same flicker of eyes. No recognition, no understanding, just a reaction to the noise.

 

_'This is getting me nowhere. Maybe there are some answers at those buildings...'_

 

“Later, man.” Sam called over his shoulder as he climbed out of sight.

 

The program's eyes flicked over briefly while he spoke, before going still once more.

 

Every program Sam passed was the same. The programs themselves were all quite different, running the gamut of color and gender spectacularly, but their posture, that statue-like stillness, except those flighty eyes, was exactly the same.

 

_'What's going_ _**on** _ _here?...'_

 

He really, _really_ hoped the buildings held the answers he was now seeking, because this fourth scenario, a land of statues, was beginning to gnaw it's way down into the pit of his stomach.

 

* * *

 

They didn't.

 

There were more of them than he'd originally guessed, though.

 

Sam sat on one of the last rocks before the first building, and the small section of road running parallel to it's front, before terminating in more rocks maybe twenty feet away in either direction. His attention wasn't on the smooth ground that his aching muscles had been crying out for for the last half-mile of his trek, though; it was focused on the building's occupants. Around every door and window, there were programs, standing so closely together that Sam almost joked about that being the biggest elevator he'd ever seen. He wasn't making the mistake of talking again so soon.

 

A sea of eyes shifting to stare blankly at him while his aborted greeting died out had been an unsettling experience he _never_ wanted to repeat.

 

_'I could try to sneak past them... Nope, Vomit Man was about as hard as rock, and I'd probably scrape all my skin off trying to wiggle through. Can't really climb in, either; the building's too smooth, and they're at every window. Maybe I'll have better luck at one of the other buildings?'_

 

There were actually quite a few buildings here. They mostly looked like apartments or office buildings, and were similarly filled like the first one. The Arena was the next closest.

 

He actually _ran_ from there after finding a way inside, only to misstep and bang his knee into a corner, and yelp.

 

_'So many eyes... I'm never going to be able to talk at a board meeting again after_ _**this** _ _.'_

 

The tower was his last place to check.

 

_'And if that falls through...'_

 

He didn't finish the thought.

 

The tower was surrounded on all sides by the smooth, hexagonal pavement tiles that used to be so common. The six legs of the tower itself seemed to be oriented in with the pavement tiles, points which, when connected, would draw a larger hexagon on the ground. The legs swept smoothly upward and together gradually, before angling up to attach to the underside of a rounded structure that, from this distance, looked a bit like a UFO.

 

_'Actually, the more I think about it, it kind of looks like the Space Needle...'_

 

Right in the center of the bottom of the UFO turned observation deck but probably not restaurant, there was a dim beam of blue light skimming down, through the center of where the tower legs almost came together, to the ground.

 

There wasn't a program in sight.

 

Sam crept closer, until he noticed that the hexagonal floor tile struck by the blue light was slightly raised from the others, and several shades lighter. Experimentally, he waved his hand through the light; it had an odd sort of density to it, more like water than air.

 

_'Here goes nothing...'_

 

Just in case, Sam held his breath as he stepped inside.

 

It didn't matter in the next moment, when he gasped in surprise as the dim light intensified, and the slim tile that had been resting on top of the normal street tile rose up, like a wall-less elevator.

 

“This can't possibly be safe!”

 

_'… … Did I_ _**really** _ _just say that?'_

 

Seeing as he wasn't suffocating, he turned his attention upward, to the hexagonal hole in the UFO's floor the elevator would undoubtedly fit into, that he hadn't been able to see from the ground. He had to shut his eyes against the bright blue-white light as he came nearer, until it was all he could see.

 

_'Is it my imagination, or is the light making a humming sound now?'_

 

It was. It was too bright for him to see why.

 

The elevator slid into place with a solid 'click'.

 

The light went out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LePeru did some beautiful artwork for this story, the first of which spans the end of this chapter, and the beginning of the next. You can check it out here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/844518 . Don't forget to shower her with praise and check out her other works too.

It was taking too long for Sam's eyes to adjust.

 

The whole building was dark, the only lights that were glowing at the moment that he could see were the white circuits of his suit, which didn't shed enough light far enough to be useful in any way other than helping him not crash into things. The humming sound that the elevator light had made was still present, a little too loud to be easily ignorable, but still soft enough that it wasn't painful, at least.

 

The feeling of something deliberately sliding down his back made him jump and turn, one hand already reaching for his disk.

 

It wasn't there.

 

_'Crap.'_

 

Reining his panic in before it even had a chance to really get going, Sam looked around for who could have stolen his disk.

 

_'Shouldn't I be able to see their circuits?...'_

 

The humming stopped, suddenly finishing with a chime of notes that Sam would almost call pleased, and dropped his Light Disc, flat side down, onto his head, before it slid off to the floor with a clatter.

 

Shooting the deceptively smooth and unassuming ceiling a dirty look, Sam replaced his disk on his back. His eyes had finally sufficiently adjusted for him to see several vague, dark shapes silhouetted against the very dim blue glow of many wide, floor-length windows spaced evenly around the perimeter of the circular space. There were no inner walls or dividers to differentiate spaces, and Sam spared a moment to stare at the large, probably heavy ceiling, and the thin sections of wall – pillars, really – between each window around the edge, and how supportive they looked, or rather, _didn't._

 

_'I know Grid physics are more... flexible, than regular physics, but I_ _**really** _ _hope there isn't an earthquake.'_

 

Two not-so-helpful images popped into his head. He immediately dismissed the cartoon-styled image of himself flattened, Wicked Witch of the East style, by the tower; the more realistic image of one of the apartment-type buildings collapsing, still nearly full to bursting with programs, in a cloud of derezzing voxels – building and program alike – lingered a bit longer, before it too was put aside.

 

_'Right. This is the only building not stuffed with programs, so hopefully there are some answers here...'_

 

Purpose settled in his mind once again, Sam took a step off the elevator panel toward what he judged to be the nearest dark shape.

 

Like ripples in a pond, white light flowed out from under his feet along previously dark and unseen circuits on the floor. Geometric yet almost organically delicate patterns and shapes traced into existence, punctuated by the occasional bold stripe or circle.

 

_'Huh. Cool. I wonder if I can get the floor in Quorra's place to do this...'_

 

As the network of lines grew, so did the light level in the room, until Sam could easily identify the dark gray chair and side table he'd been heading for, as well as several long, almost crescent-shaped desks, their glossy black surfaces reflecting the dim light back. A similar, yet more diffused glow followed the lights on the ceiling; the dark blob above Sam himself indicated that this was more reflected light, like brushed steel or a foggy mirror. When the lights finally had spread to the edge of the room they pulsed brighter for a moment, but as they resumed their previous glow, several spots and segments shifted colors. A few turned some of the other colors of the rainbow, but most of those that changed turned blue. The placement of the various changed sections seemed intentional, but Sam could only guess at the meaning.

 

_'Okay, I **definitely** need to figure out how to do this to Quorra's floor. It doesn't really match my place, but it's just cool.'_

 

During the room's transformation, he'd apparently continued on his way to the chair and side table, as they were now centered in his field of vision. The six-legged chair and table echoed the tower's design, but what really caught his attention was the book lying face down on the table. Sam had only seen such a distinctively _User_ item one other place on the Grid, and his throat tightened as he looked the place over again, though he otherwise kept his composure.

 

_'This place was significant, somehow. The architecture, this book... I hate mysteries.'_

 

He picked up the book carefully, before turning it's spine toward him, and realized the book hadn't been placed on the table face-down. Asian characters – Japanese or Chinese, if he had to guess – were embossed in faded silver against what for all intents and purposes looked like black leather.  He thumbed through it, and was unsurprised by the columns of indecipherable script that flashed before his eyes. Hesitantly, he set the book back down, now actually face-down, and was just staring at it, when a chirp of noise and sudden light in the corner of his eye caught his attention. He bumped into the chair – which he noted must have hidden castors as it rolled away from him – as he made his way over to one of the black crescent tables, and the bright blue-white, holographic style display that had just popped up into existence slightly left of the center of the tabletop.

 

The window was dominated by a map of the Grid, or at least, what he assumed was a map. Large portions of the display were darkened into nonexistence, but he could still make out familiar sights; there was a large spot of light helpfully labeled 'GamesArena', a few on a familiar path marked 'Housing3' to 'Housing7', one on the path he'd traveled and a few farther away he hadn't found marked 'SystemUtility1' through 'SystemUtility5', and a comparatively dimmer spot of light which he was almost certain was the tower, unhelpfully labeled 'TowerOutpostHQ'. There were little dots of fuzzy interference over the otherwise clear portions of the display, and only one within the otherwise darkened sections of the map, a pulsing pinprick of light on the eastern side of the map which was otherwise all darkness, marked 'LaserOutput'.

 

_'The portal.'_

 

Several smaller windows were open within the display underneath the map. One was filled with constantly shifting information charts that, while they were interesting patterns to look at, were utterly useless to him without a frame of reference. Rapidly scrolling text filled the next box, too fast for his eyes to focus on except the last two words of each near-identical sentence: 'error – offline'. A line flashed through that was different from the others, but was impossible to focus on quickly enough before it was gone. In comparison, the last box was very still; it looked to be status summaries of units, entries in a table of unit name, status, armament, and last dialogue among others. Most of them were dimmed, and ringed in red, the word 'deresolution' barely fitting within the space of their status box, as if it were never meant to be there. Sam felt a confused shiver of wary sadness run through him at what was more than likely a list of dead programs, even though he didn't know them, and they could very well have been his enemies.

 

He almost missed the box that wasn't reddened and dim.

 

Down at the bottom of the list was the entry for Unit 1. Armament – none, disk missing. Status – active. Last dialogue – 'Requesting Extraction'.

 

“Active, huh?” Sam voiced his thoughts out loud, reaching out to the active box. He felt a brief moment of resistance, before the box was highlighted, and there was activity on the map. The terrain details of the map dimmed while the hexagonal structure of the map's many sectors lit up brighter. One section in particular lit brightly and pulsed, off on the eastern side, sharing two of it's sides with dark nothingness Sam suspected was the sea, considering it's position in relation to the portal's point of light.

 

Seeing as poking the display had gotten results last time, he poked the glowing hexagon in question. It shimmered for a moment, before expanding to offer a more detailed image of the sector. Most of it looked like the jagged rock that was displayed in most of the other hexagons, until the very eastern edges where everything became smooth, dim light slowly fading into nothingness. Just at the edge of the nothingness, there was a small point of light, which was now pulsing within the zoomed image. A small notation marked this dot as 'Unit 1'.

 

_'Found you.'_

 

Sam tapped on the dot almost excitedly; he was surprised, though, when instead of further information appearing on the display, he heard that same chirp of noise from before behind him. Turning, Sam considered the slender, waist-high pillar that _definitely_ hadn't been there before. Standing  on top of it, all balanced on their ends, were two batons, and a map card similar to the one Quorra gave him on his search for Zuse.

 

_'How is that thing just balancing there like that?'_

 

Not bothering to wonder too long about Grid  physics again so soon, he reached for the card. Just when he was about to touch it, though, it derezzed, voxels flying into, and subsequently being absorbed by, the two batons. He picked one up with each hand, considered them for several long moments, before clipping one to his thigh absentmindedly.

 

He had an idea.

 

He glanced over at the nearest window, watching its faintly shifting surface approvingly.

 

He ran headlong at it, _through_ what wasn't really just a window, like at his father's sanctuary.

 

He cracked open the baton, and jumped.

 

It wasn't what he'd initially expected, but the lightjet rezzing into existence around him was even better.

 

He turned the fall into a dive, and banked eastward, to a point that while within this lightjet he now _knew_ with absolute certainty was the direction of that small point of light, on a strange map in an even stranger tower.

 

_'Let's hope you're still active when I get there, because I'm starting to think you could be the only active program on the Grid.'_

 

* * *

 

Flying a lightjet wasn't as easy as Sam originally thought.

 

He could hold a steady course fairly well, since all that required of him by way of skill was the ability to hold perfectly still, but changes in altitude or minor course corrections generally had his white craft _just_ this side of out of control.

 

He tried to suppress the spasm brought on by his cramping right calf, and forcibly jolted the lightjet back on track.

 

He knew the impression was relative, because it was difficult to gauge this sort of thing from his current altitude, but every time he glanced at the ground he couldn't help but feel as though he were barely moving. He was definitely going faster than he would on foot – the rocky terrain was even worse out here, but he was pretty certain it'd been like this before whatever happened here – but he wished, not for the first time this flight, that lightcycles could work on the rocky terrain below.

 

_'Now those things are_ _**fast** _ _. At least I don't have to climb...'_

 

He was nearing his destination, finally. He didn't know how he knew, though he had his suspicions, but already he was searching for a safe enough spot to land on.

 

_'I've got to get lower.'_

 

His slow descent turned into a sudden drop for one heart-stopping moment, but he evened out about fifteen feet from the ground, just a _bit_ closer than he'd intended.

 

The end of the rocky wilderness was soon upon him, and he _carefully_ turned his craft to follow the black beach.

 

_'The sea looks different.'_

 

He tried to ignore it.

 

He didn't quite succeed...

 

… and that was probably the main reason, coupled with the homing pigeon-like sense of direction in his head, that he saw a dark shape disrupting the water at the shoreline. Sam tried to land carefully, about twenty feet down the beach.

 

Ten feet down the beach from the dark shape, Sam crashed, luckily having come close enough and slowed enough that he rolled with the sudden drop when the baton clicked itself back together in his hand, instead of accumulating a severe case of digital road rash.

 

Groaning, Sam picked himself up off the ground slowly. He took a moment to catch his breath, before turning to examine the dark shape.

 

The dark shape was a program – male, from what he could tell – the first he'd seen not standing like a statue on his trip so far; he'd seen a few more from the air on his way here, all like the others.

 

He was lying, face down, almost completely submerged in the shallow water.

 

He wasn't moving.

 

_'Did he drown while I was on my here?_ _**Can** _ _programs drown?'_

 

He was wearing a helmet, so Sam couldn't tell.

 

Hesitantly, Sam approached the still, sparingly circuited blue-white program. He was just about to touch his shoulder, maybe turn him over, or pull him out of the water, when suddenly the lithe program was all movement. Before Sam had fully processed what was happening, the program had braced his hands in the mud, pushing and twisting his body from prone almost into a handstand, and locked his now free and mobile legs around the User's neck. Now hanging off of Sam, he swung his whole body up, using his suddenly added, shifting weight to knock Sam off-balance, causing him to fall on his back, his neck tightly held between the program's thighs.

 

Somewhat winded from the fall, Sam gaped for a moment, but it wasn't the new, dangerous, and somewhat compromising position he found himself in that left him speechless.

 

He _recognized_ this program.

 

_'Rinzler.'_

 

The blue-white lights were new, though.

 

Scores of childhood memories flashed through his head at the sight of four particular squares of light at the base of the program's throat.

 

_'Here's hoping...'_

 

“Tron?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LePeru did some beautiful artwork for this story, the first of which spans the end of last chapter, and the beginning of this one. You can check it out here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/844518 . Don't forget to shower her with praise and check out her other works too.

Tron stilled, his left arm already cocked back to aim a strike at his unexpected new seat.

 

He'd been cataloging his various sensory inputs, testing their viability now that he'd had time to afford some self-repair. The process was hardly complete, however; many of his inner, secondary processes were in shambles, jagged and disjointed. As they were not vital to his core functions, and therefore seen as superfluous by – _him_ – they had been passed over during his maintenance periods, and eventually began to malfunction and degrade. He'd quarantined most of them and turned off sensory input from them several hectocycles ago, but a particularly corroded process had wrenched loose recently from his coding-disruptive conflicts with high-clearance programs and Users. His latest maneuver had had it grating over other, functioning processes, and he registered the wet-but-not slide of derezzed voxels in his throat as a taste sensation that evoked a negative heaving reminiscent of his most recent time online previous to this one.

 

_'At least the input for pain regarding that process is still turned off.'_

 

'Water,' 'Non-threat,' 'Origin – Sea of Simulation,' and 'Cold', among other things, registered in little tracks down his body. For a fraction of a picocycle, he tracked the course of a rivulet of water down his raised arm with just his visu- _eyes_ , before he once again regarded the program beneath him thoughtfully.

 

**'Incorrect. Target identified. Attaching memory file time code minus... estimated 1.143 millicycles – time span offline unknown.'**

 

_'Blood, User, -'_

 

“Sam Flynn.” Tron barely recognized the sound that left his audio output, accompanied by a violent cough, the previously small trickle of voxels leaving his mouth spewed out almost like a cloud, before sliding like water to puddle in the current lowest point of his helmet, more derezzing to take up the vacated space in his throat. He observed the rapid shift of the young User's features, cross-referencing the angles of his expressions against memories of Flynn, Sam himself, and some of the more expressive ISOs and programs he'd known. His results weren't promising, but insufficient comparison data from the subject in question left the information incomplete and unreliable.

 

He let his arm drop to hang limp at his side.

 

Sam tensed, and tried to shift up; automatically, Rinzler tightened his almost-stranglehold on the User's neck. Almost immediately, Tron backed up on the pressure, tilting his helmeted head to one side. There was wariness in the angles of the User's new expression.

 

_'He doesn't trust me, and rightfully so.'_

 

**'Target – the User, Sam Flynn – is captured and partially immobilized. Users prone to action without consideration of effects.'**

 

_'Insufficient data for such an assessment. I have been in contact with just three Users, and met only two. I thought the – **augmented** – code source of such conclusions had been removed? … Or, mostly removed...'_

 

**'… Still, violence is possible. Caution advised. Memory search keywords 'make it up as I go'. Users show... capability, to be infinitely unpredictable.'**

 

He bowed his head low, shoulders slumping. His upper body followed the motion already begun, until his forearms were once again partially submerged, fingers barely trailing along the surface of the muddy sand underwater, and his upper body was completely doubled over, helmeted head hung low enough, close enough to the User's own partially helmeted face that he distantly registered 'Wind' 'Non-threat' 'Origin – User Sam Flynn' 'Respiration' and 'Moist', as well as several pressure and velocity calculations that were dismissed almost as soon as they'd been completed.

 

_'...I need to show him I am_ **_not_ ** _a threat.'_

 

**'Repairs incomplete. Current positioning advantageous. Sam Flynn is armed, and indicating optimum efficiency. Without a weapon, in current state, likelihood of unit's – our – my? yes, _my_ -  deresolution during conflict... higher than ideal.'**

 

_'A show of trust is needed, and I do not possess an... 'olive branch'. Reminder generated, seek clarification on 'olive branch' at next opportunity, and possible substitutes.'_

 

Tron set both hands down on the muddy shore, one hand on either side of the User's face, and braced himself.

 

* * *

 

Sam wasn't sure what to think about the whole situation. At first, Rinzler – or Tron, he couldn't really say, though he _had_ stopped when Sam called him Tron – had looked poised to try and punch through his face into the sand underneath it, but then he'd stopped. The program held so still that Sam's relief in _not_ having his face turned into a bloody pulp fizzled out into uncertainty, and he became aware on an entirely new level of several facts: his head was _very_ firmly trapped by a program that was probably all too _capable_ of killing him – though hopefully not _willing_ to, the program's legs from the calf down were stuck under his back awkwardly, but helping to hold his head up above the water's surface – his armor didn't have a full face mask, and the one mouthful of almost-vibrating, vaguely bitter water he'd gotten with their initial impact had been plenty – and between these points of contact he'd have a hard time getting free if...

 

_'I_ _**really** _ _hope he didn't just freeze up like the others...'_

 

And then Tron spoke. Two words; Sam's name, deceptively simple.

 

It sounded anything but simple when he said it, though.

 

Sam remembered quite clearly what Rinzler had sounded like, as if that whole Ordeal had happened just yesterday, rather than a month ago; the soft purring, with it's even softer, broken hitch, and the one time it had left, on the floor of the Arena, one word spoken with such clear, intense, _deliberateness._ A thousand year's worth of meaning somehow jammed into two little syllables. That same intensity and deliberateness were present again this time, but clarity certainly _wasn't_. The words were heavily distorted and garbled, like listening to a badly tuned musical instrument playing a familiar tune underwater.

 

The cough afterward had sounded painful, harsh and wet, and it left Sam feeling rather conflicted. This program could be his greatest ally, or opposition. He had tried to kill him, but also saved him. He sounded _broken_ , but still moved and behaved very capably. He had fought for the Users, then was repurposed – _brainwashed –_ into the ideal weapon against them. He was a hero, and then was turned into a monster. He victimized so many, but was also, perhaps, one of the biggest victims.

 

_'Never thought some of those late night talks with Quorra would have this sort of... practical application.'_

 

Unaware that his shifting thoughts were being telegraphed on his face as much as they were, Sam was caught entirely by surprise when hopefully-Tron's fist abruptly dropped, and immediately tried to sit up.

 

_**'Finally,** _ _we're getting somewhere.'_

 

They weren't getting there quite as quickly as he thought they were, though.

 

For a brief moment, Sam's world focused down to pain, _something_ inside him – very important, even if it's name currently wasn't – on the verge of breaking into countless little pieces, and the sudden realization that he _just couldn't breathe_. Before his mind could catch up to these things, before the appropriate feeling of gut-wrenching panic could fill him, the pressure that he could now understand had just been trying to suffocate him or snap his neck, was almost entirely gone, reduced to a featherlight touch on his already protesting nerve endings. Sam grit his teeth, but kept his gaze fixed warily on the program.

 

_'Okay, note to self: no sudden movements when trapped by crazy strong programs. Man, that hurt; I think he may have dislocated my head....'_

 

He gave a mental sigh.

 

_'And here I'd thought we were starting to make some progress, particularly in the 'not sitting in the ocean, and maybe actually talking' department.'_

 

All the fight seemed to drain out of maybe-Rinzler without warning. He seemed to just deflate and curl in on himself, hands trailing limp in the water; his head, still obscured by the glossy darkness of his helmet, so close to Sam's own that his breaths fogged the surface of it slightly. The program's posture was a strange mix of defeat and supplication, and gave Sam the overall impression of a man waiting to be struck down by his king or god.

 

Several uneasy moments passed as Sam remembered the social, and religious associations programs had with Users. Tron, he recalled from his father's stories, was _particularly_ loyal to the Users during the reign of the MCP.

 

Suddenly extremely uncomfortable, Sam struggled to find words to say to diffuse this situation without further injury to either of them, when Tron started moving again.

 

The hands that had been aimlessly drifting in the water planted themselves firmly on either side of Sam's head, and that helmet seemed to drift even closer. Tron's body went tense, and then to the User's surprise, he pulled his legs apart, slowly and carefully tugging free of the weight of Sam's back on his calves, and angled into another pseudo-handstand, with his legs held out straight to either side, parallel to the ground. He held the move for a moment, black helmet so close to Sam's face he could hardly look away, though attempting to focus left him feeling a little cross-eyed. Tron seemed to see some signal in his expression, as the next moment he twisted his legs in the air, creating momentum to turn the handstand into a half-cartwheel with effortless grace, enough to make a fair few gymnasts green with envy.

 

The move left Tron standing a few feet away, with his back to Sam.

 

His very weaponless back.

 

_'I guess it's my turn, then...'_

 

Sam slowly picked himself up out of the water, and eyed the program's slightly slumped posture.

 

He pulled his Disc off his back.

 

* * *

 

Tron registered the sound of a Light Disc activating.

 

His whole platform stilled, even as his processes kicked into overdrive, fluctuating between turning his pain sensory inputs all-off or all-on. He was still debating between a quick and easy deresolution, and paying at least slightly for the atrocities he'd committed, when suddenly, he registered a wet-but-not thud, and a slight whisper of wind.

 

With his pain sensory inputs currently off, he waited for full deresolution to finally seize him.

 

He waited more.

 

Eventually, he turned his head enough to peek behind him, then he turned fully around.

 

Lying between the two of them, half-buried in the sand, was the User's Light Disc.

 

_'...What?'_

 

**'The User Sam Flynn has significantly reduced his tactical advantage.'**

 

_**'...What?'** _

 

He looked from the User, to the weapon, and back again.

 

_'I thought he was going to derezz us – me.'_

 

He tilted his head to one side.

 

The User offered him a weak smile.

 

He tilted his head to the other side.

 

The smile became a marginal amount stronger.

 

“You look like a bird when you do that.”

 

He didn't really know how to respond to that, but did refrain from tilting his head back the other way again.

 

Sam's smile faltered, then left to be replaced by a sort of nervous grimace. His helmet folded away into nothingness as he brought a hand up to run through his hair, taking slow, shaky breaths. Something about the gesture left Tron uneasy, some sub-process of his primary imperative shuffling up his priority list. It didn't make it to the top, but it did get rather high up before it stalled. He almost investigated it, but the current tense situation took precedence.

 

**'User Sam Flynn has again reduced in tactical advantage.'**

 

_'Memory search keywords 'show of goodwill' perhaps?'_

 

**'Likely. Calculating percentage chance.'**

 

_'Maybe I should do the same?'_

 

**'Combat effectiveness would reduce, though inclination for combat from User Sam Flynn would also, likely, reduce. Calculating percentages. Done.'**

 

_'… Not bad.'_

 

He lifted his hands to his own helmet... then hesitated. He moved his hands in front of his face, and just stared at them. Sam was watching him, almost rocking onto the balls of his feet in a mix of confused, wary curiosity.

 

_'How do I?...'_

 

**'Memory search, last successful initiation and dismissal of basic sensory interface protection, cross-reference search word 'helmet'. … No record within the last 100 cycles. No record within last 500 cycles. No record within last 1000 cycles. Search criteria part one found. Forced initiation... during partitioning and repurposing.'**

 

_'Clu. Part two?'_

 

**'Searching.'**

 

Reviewing the memory associated with the first part of his internal search, Tron cringed, hands held over where his basic audi – _ears_ – were inside. His fingers uselessly clawed at the angles of shiny black, seeking a seam he knew wasn't there.

 

“... Hey, are you okay?” 'Okay' was so vague, could be taken several different ways, Tron was even less sure of how to respond, but Sam's words _had_ been a question... and perhaps conversation would also lower the User's 'inclination for combat'.

 

**'Done.'**

 

_'Standby?'_

 

**'… Done.'**

 

“Damaged,” was his reply. Under ideal circumstances he would have said more, at least a fully formatted sentence, but between the damage to his audio output, and choking each word out around a steady outflow of voxels, what he managed to say was almost incomprehensible.

 

Two syllables was his limit, for now.

 

_'Access memory.'_

 

Distantly, he registered Sam's voice, muttering out a “You can say that again” while he reviewed the second memory, thankfully shorter and more ambivalent in content. He slid his hands down the sides of the helmet, hooked his thumbs on two particular points under his jaw, and arranged his fingers over the remaining hidden circuits. This particular arrangement of fingers was a forced removal of his helmet, to counteract the forced initialization of it a little over a kilocycle ago.

 

He pantomimed lifting the helmet off, and as soon as his fingers were no longer in contact with the helmet's surface, it neatly folded away into nothingness, a small cloud of voxels – no longer collecting in the bottom of his helmet – drifting to the ground. He watched the downward journey of the voxels long after they'd settled, suddenly unwilling to meet the User's eyes.

 

The sound of an uncertain step forward snapped his attention up reflexively.

 

Sam was staring, eyes wide and mouth gaping open.

 

* * *

 

Sam's eyes and brain were having a bit of trouble communicating.

 

Everything had been going all right at first. They were both tense, and he knew that he'd confused Tron, so he'd made an, admittedly, odd attempt at getting them talking. The responding silence had made him more nervous than it should have, so he decided to take a moment to collect himself. He'd dismissed his helmet – he'd never really been that fond of it, really, even if it was necessary at times – and almost missed the program reaching up to do the same. Something was wrong though, when the motion eventually turned into something between the program covering his ears, and trying to claw them out of his head, with the helmet as a barrier between either action, even though they were both silent at the moment. So, he'd asked an obvious question, and got an unsurprising answer in return. 'Damaged' indeed. Tron just held that pose for several long moments, until eventually, he started moving again, as if he'd never stopped.

 

Sam had watched in interest as the program's fingers arranged themselves in an odd sort of way over the helmet, and he pretended to pull it off. Instead of following his hands, though, the helmet folded away, and presented Sam's eyes with the sight that his brain was having trouble with.

 

Sam had known Alan when he was younger, and he'd seen some pictures of him from before he was born, so it was easy to see Alan in the  
face currently turned toward the ground. An indistinct memory told him this shouldn't be surprising, but he was still pretty floored at the moment. He took a step forward without realizing, and was suddenly pinned in place by eyes that, while still that familiar gray-blue, were almost as unreadable as a stranger's.

 

_'He kind of is, I guess...'_

 

Now that his attention had been brought to it, he could actually see several differences between this program and the second father figure in his life. Most of them were in his expression and how he carried himself; after all, he'd led a very different sort of life than a businessman-programmer. There were a few physical differences, though; Sam had never considered Alan as a person that spent a lot of time outdoors, until now, faced with hair that was a significantly darker brown – having never been subject to any sun-bleaching – and skin that was so pale it was almost translucent. The program was also probably more fit than his User doppelganger, even when their ages were closer together; not that Alan hadn't been in shape, but that didn't really compare to a body honed into a living weapon.

 

_'Hey, wait-'_

 

“You were shorter than me, before.” His tone twisted the blurted thought suddenly into a question.

 

It was weirdly reassuring to actually be able to see the look of confusion on the program's face this time when his head tilted to one side.

 

_'Yep, still looks like a bird when he does that, helmet or no.'_

 

Eventually Tron gave a small, vague shrug in response.

 

The normality of the User body language was a bit surreal.

 

They were both still a moment, until Sam decided to get the ball rolling in a more goal-oriented direction.

 

“Do you know what happened here? On the Grid, I mean.” He tacked on the second bit just in case the program decided to take him literally.

 

“I'm not-,” but whatever he wasn't was cut off, as something dark like graphite gurgled out of his mouth like water, but fell to the ground like fine sand.

 

It took another violent, wet-sounding cough from Tron before it occurred to him that they were voxels derezzing from the program internally.

 

_'He'd said 'damaged', not 'derezzing'...!'_

 

It was a slow process, at least. Sam couldn't quite decide if that _really_ was good news or not.

 

“Um, is there a way I can help – repair you?”

 

The program shook his head.

 

“Why not?” He felt a bit bad for asking, since talking seemed to make it worse, but he had to _know._

 

The program's gaze flicked down momentarily.

 

Sam followed his gaze... to his own Light Disc.

 

“Missing.” Two syllables, and another cough.

 

_'Crap.'_

 

Needles and haystacks came to mind.


	5. Chapter 5

Sam was at a loss for what to do.

 

Tron – a program that had been portrayed during his childhood as invincible, _unstoppable_ – was _derezzing_ ; realistically, he knew how unreasonable his expectations had been, but some part of Sam – probably the part that held on to a three-inch action figure for twenty years – could not accept the concept of the Grid's protector _coughing himself_ into oblivion.

 

He needed to help him – if not for what Tron was in the past, then at least for the fact that he was Sam's only lead on what had happened to the Grid.

 

How could he help, though, when the program's Light Disc – the means by which a program is repaired in-system, isn't here for him to even _try_?

 

_'I could spend the next twenty years in here and never find two little disks; Clu had that much time and an army to find a whole house._ _Time for Plan B...'_

 

Tron had been watching him for a while now, expression blank, but Sam was struck by a sudden bout of intuition, or something, when he noticed the program widen his stance, slit his eyes, and tilt his head, and translated the actions as 'trying to hear something'.

 

_'Maybe his Discs?...'_

 

The dark trickle of voxels out of the corner of Tron's mouth reminded him about the better method to phrasing his questions.

 

_'It kind of looks like he's drooling...'_

 

“Can you, uh, _sense_ your Discs?”

 

The program gave him a strange look, like he'd just asked for a piggyback ride back to the remains of the city, and slowly shook his head in the negative.

 

_'Of_ _**course** _ _not; that would have been too easy.'_

 

“Um...” Sam ran a hand through his hair, trying to mentally transpose 'Where did you lose them?' into a yes or no question, when the memory suddenly came to him. Uncomfortably, the User recalled his and Quorra's fight against Rinzler and its surprise ending, overlaid with a cool female voice from an earlier memory, telling him that losing one's disk was _punishable by death_.

 

_“'So there's probably no way to get them replaced...'”_

 

If Tron's surprised look hadn't clued him in to the fact he'd spoken aloud, then the garbled “Yes.” that had accompanied it surely would have.

 

The actual content of the answer took a moment to sink in.

 

“Wait, you just said 'yes'.” It wasn't said like a question, but the security program nodded anyway; the hesitance with which he did so suggested it wasn't that simple, though. Frustrated by this _new_ hiccup without bothering to confirm it, he kicked a blob of black mud off further into the Sea. “Let me guess,” he spoke up sarcastically after a moment, “Just to be _convenient_ , whatever can do this is in the city.”

 

Tron nodded, turning slightly so he could point... pretty much the way Sam had just come from; at their current angle and distance, he couldn't see anything. His uncomprehending look prompted the program to elaborate with “H.Q.”

 

Two syllables.

 

Sam had to look away for the coughing this time; it sounded _worse_ to him.

 

Another complication came to him, then. “You're not going to be able to make it to the city, are you? Even with the little planes I brought...”

 

“As is?” Tron paused to hack up voxels, before finally just finishing by shaking his head 'no' again. The program's mouth twitched briefly into an amused half-smile, but it was gone before the User could comment on it.

 

_'Wait, he said 'as is' instead of just 'no'...'_

 

“Is there something we can do so you can make it?” It must have been the right question, because Tron nodded again. The program paused for a moment, a thoughtful look on his face, before he moved a few steps closer, and crouched down by Sam's Light Disc.

 

Some part of Sam – probably his sense of self-preservation – tensed warily at the sight of a program he still didn't entirely trust so close to his own disk and only means of defense, but Tron seemed to anticipate this reaction, and made no move to grab the weapon. Instead, he nodded toward the Light Disc then, with a rather eloquent look, the security monitor turned around and shifted into a kneeling position, with his head lowered down.

 

_'It seems so different seeing it from this perspective... Not sure what he wants, exactly, but it involves my disk somehow...'_

 

Sam bent down slowly to retrieve his Light Disc; it felt oddly warm in his hand. He looked from the disk to the program, whose shoulders were now hunched inward, as if to allow easier access to his disk dock.

 

_'Is it that simple?...'_

 

There was only one way to find out.

 

Taking his disk in both hands, the User clicked it into place on the program's disk dock...

 

Nothing happened.

 

Eventually, Tron lifted his hands up, pantomiming a circular shape, before settling his hands at two- and ten-o'clock, fingers held in a sort of claw-like gesture. He just held that position, until Sam mimicked the actions.

 

Sam could feel a wealth of tightly coiled energy humming _just_ under his fingertips, and reached out to it on an instinctive level. It was a jagged mass of weak shocks, strange but undeniably _alive_ ; after that first contact it shrank in on itself and gentled, trembling vigorously. His awareness expanded out beyond the mass of energy again in time to realize that something _else_ was also shaking under his hands.

 

_'Wh- what was_ _**that** _ _?...'_

 

“Ask lots,” Sam could feel the violent heaving of the program's body this time in response to the cryptic instructions. His own gut churned uneasily in sympathy, and he barely stopped himself from rubbing Tron's back in an attempt to soothe; who knows what sort of damage that could do in his current positioning, but the sentiment stubbornly remained.

 

He wanted to say something, but couldn't decide on what before Tron was pantomiming again; this time he motioned pushing forward while slowly rotating to the left, broken into three tiered shifts, before slowly lowering shaking hands to fist atop his knees.

 

_'I have a feeling this is more significant than I understand, or it's getting worse, even_ _**faster** _ _.'_

 

Trying to be reassuring, the User leaned forward slightly to speak calmly and quietly into the program's ear. “Don't worry so much; I've got you. We'll have you fixed back up in no time.” He couldn't see Tron's face, but he could hear and feel his sudden gasp, and decided to stop with the suspense and push forward...

 

...by pushing forward.

 

Tron went still and pliable under his hands. Hoping this was a sign of halting the slow deresolution, Sam hurried to finish the sequence of motions: left, in, left, in, and left.

 

The energy he felt before seemed to almost crystallize, and suddenly Tron was standing up, nearly knocking Sam down in the process. The program stood poised, staring out into the distance from between fallen locks of hair, no longer leaking voxels...

 

He was no longer doing _anything_ , actually.

 

“Not you too...” Sam half pleaded, mouth twisting into a frown. The program looked over as he spoke, as usual, but unlike before, his expression wasn't blank, more politely curious. Most telling, though, was that Tron _kept looking at him afterward._

 

_'That last thing he'd said, 'ask lots'... Wait a minute, he_ _**knew** _ _this was going to happen. What should I ask, though?'_

 

He ultimately went with something basic, and short.

 

“Who are you?”

 

There was no distortion in his answer.

 

“Unit identity TRON-JA-307020.”

 

The clipped, impersonal tone of the words would imply a strict, stiff bearing, maybe something like military parade rest, not the program's hunched shoulders, lowered head, and general air of danger.

 

...like Rinzler.

 

_'He just called himself Tron, though. Any resemblance to persons, real or imaginary, is_ _**hopefully** _ _coincidental.'_

 

More questions would hopefully clarify things.

 

“What is your, uh, function?”

 

“Primary imperatives: Fight for the Users, Defend the System, Protect the Programs. Imperatives of lower priority temporarily suspended pending Unit analysis and repair by... … … alternative system administrator.”

 

_'More than I bargained for, there. At least we're clearly past the whole 'two syllables then hack up a lung' thing.'_

 

After Tron finished speaking he froze up similarly to the programs before, waiting for Sam's next question.

 

_''Ask lots', huh? Maybe more involved questions would help?'_

 

“Are you able to operate this in your current state?” he asked while tossing his second lightjet baton at the security monitor. At first, he thought the program wasn't going to be able to catch it, but one hand snapped around the slim metal cylinder just as it was about to sail out of reach on a collision course with the beach.

 

Tron looked the baton over briefly, before returning his gaze to Sam. “Yes. Demonstration request query?”

 

It took him a moment to translate the odd sentence structure into something normal, but once he had, the sheer fact that he was being _asked_ a question caught him more off-guard than it really should have. His response to the question was delayed, accordingly.

 

“Uh, no, that's not necessary; keep that with you, though.”

 

Obediently, the program clipped the baton to his thigh, and went back to waiting, frozen once more.

 

_'Okay, time for the million dollar question, already.'_

 

“Can you lead me to the place where we can get you replacement disks?”

 

There was barely a pause between when he finished asking, and the program's response. “Yes; secondary facilities destroyed or indicating inoperable, primary facility indicating functional.”

 

“You can tell all that from out here?” the User asked before he could stop himself, earning a prompt, simple “Yes.”

 

It wasn't a question, but hopefully it would work all the same in this instance.

 

“Lead me there.”

 

Tron grabbed the baton from his leg, and took off at a run away from the Sea, to the point where the black, sandy shoreline gave way to the rocky wasteland typical of the Outlands; Sam took off in pursuit after his initial surprise at the action wore off.

 

_'_ _**Please** _ _tell me we're not playing_ _**tag** _ _the whole way there.'_

 

They weren't.

 

Tron ran headlong at the nearest low cliff, then, in a mix of ninja acrobatics and free-running, ran, twisted, and flipped his way _up_ the cliffside, until his free hand grasped onto the rough, rocky edge at the top, at which point he braced his feet against the rock wall, and launched himself out into the empty air like a swimmer, a familiar 'crack' sounding as he twisted his body into a face-down position.

 

Sam slowed to a stop, and stared.

 

_'I think I just got dumped on,_ _**again** _ _.'_

 

The program's lightjet twisted in tight circles overhead, waiting while the User scaled the cliffs quickly, if not as elaborately.

 

With a last look over at the Sea, and the agitated section of shore that marked their encounter, Sam leapt off the edge of the cliff, and was soon wrestling his lightjet into submission behind Tron's, heading back to what remained of TRON City.

 

* * *

 

It wasn't until they were almost on top of it that Sam figured out their destination.

 

_'It's the Space Needle again.'_

 

It made sense, when he thought about it – after pulling out of an accidental nose dive. It was information from this building that had sent him after Unit 1 – _Tron_ – in the first place, and it seemed to be the only place not stuck in whatever had happened to the rest of the system.

 

One building, and one program.

 

He glanced forward at the program flying rigidly perfect, a carefully maintained distance in front of him.

 

_'Well, one building, at least at the moment.'_

 

There was no warning before Tron started his descent. He dipped down, lightjet aimed at the upper landing of the tower, by Sam's reckoning as he followed. Suddenly, though, Tron's lightjet turned to circle the tower, dipped to descend at an even faster rate. Sam tried to copy the moves, but while he was marginally better than his last ride, two flights still wasn't a lot of experience, and a tightly controlled spiral descent was beyond his level of ability.

 

Accidentally stalling the lightjet saved him from the speed, but the baton's auto-disengagement didn't save him entirely from the fall.

 

_'Roll with it, roll with it, roll-!'_

 

He rolled with the impact again, narrowly avoiding breaking a limb.

 

_'Man, I_ _**really** _ _need to work on my landings.'_

 

He didn't get the chance to observe a proper landing, as demonstrated by his companion, because by the time he'd picked himself up off the ground, Tron was already standing there, waiting for him, all politely curious expression juxtaposed by Rinzler's body language.

 

“I'm fine, “ the User announced, but the program was already moving away to the tower's elevator tile.

 

_'Okay then...'_

 

He followed Tron onto the platform, and reached up with one hand to grasp the program's shoulder for stability on the now slightly overcrowded-feeling elevator.

 

After a while, his gaze was pulled away from the bright, humming light overhead to Tron. Nothing seemed to have changed, at first; his posture was the same, hunched and deadly, his head lowered so that his hair fell into his face, and his expression still that odd, polite curiosity, except...

 

Twin tracks of moisture – pale and glowing, energy? - leaked from his eyes, completely unacknowledged by the program, but stubbornly steady.

 

Before he could figure out a way to ask about the display – his current best options were admittedly lame, wavering between a referential 'Little boy, why are you crying?', a vague 'I sense much sorrow in you.', and a simple 'Your face is wet.' - the elevator had locked into place on the main body of the tower.

 

The blinding light surrounding them changed suddenly; it dimmed, then took on a solidity and weight that was moments away from sending Sam to his knees, if he could move anymore. The hum had been joined by a dissonant beep of alarm.

 

He looked up in time to see that part of the ceiling above them had opened up, a fathomless black hole in the otherwise smooth, silvery expanse... and something whipped out of the darkness like a mechanical snake. He had one fleeting moment to look at it, as it latched onto Tron's disk dock with a fierce, three-pronged grip, and electrocuted him offline.

 

A moment later it was gone, and his world shrank down to white-hot, electrical agony, before darkening into blissful unconsciousness.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LePeru did some beautiful artwork for this story, the second of which is in this chapter. You can check it out here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/844518 . Don't forget to shower her with praise and check out her other works too.

It was happening all over again.

 

_'Oh, Users..._ _Let it be different, this time. I know I don't deserve it, but, please, show mercy.'_

 

Sam had been asking him questions when one of his diagnostic processes had cleared his sync functions, and he'd immediately activated it, seeking the background chatter and chirps of running programs, the almost-singing of structures and energy flow, and the deep baseline hum of the system itself. He was looking for dissonance, evidence of what had happened, and what needed to be done, even if he was in no state to do it. He knew of only one other program that had a sync function similar to his own; all programs were capable of it on a certain level – except, perhaps the ISOs, as he'd never thought to ask them – but only Clu had had a comparable level of autonomy, and high-level clearance.

 

The near-silence was deafening.

 

Sam continued with his questioning, oblivious to the system in the same way his father had been. Tron was beginning to suspect it was the way of Users; they had a different sort of input and output with the system. The User seemed to want to help him, so the program answered what he could, even though being limited to the options of 'yes' and 'no' left him feeling like a Bit; attempting anything more was draining, even if the pain input was currently off.

 

The User was on to an idea that would work, even as the program's processes stuttered at the thought of what it would entail.

 

The worse part of it all, was that he had to _give instructions_ on how to be nullified.

 

_'Flynn, I can only pray your son's kindness functions are at least the same version history as yours... Perhaps, if he is seeking to set things right, he will simply derezz me when he is through with me...'_

 

Even knowing what was ahead, the first touch of the User's hands in _that_ particular override position, upon a foreign, higher-clearance Disc occupying the space where the essence of his existence normally rested, caused him to lash out on the most fundamental of levels. In the next moment he'd managed to contain himself, and continued relaying the instructions, completely ignoring his somatic glitches.

 

The other behind him shifted, and words came as they had before.... almost word for word.

 

He gasped out in shock.

 

_'All that is visible, must grow beyond itself, into the realm of the invisible...'_

 

The accompanying sob struggled to gurgle up his throat, and was stolen away as the other _moved._

 

_**'Alan-One, requesting instructional input... and assistance...'** _

 

The world dimmed and narrowed, as he was unmade, after a fashion.

 

**'Revised assessment of survival plus 21.43% from previous. Minor processes halted, secondary process frequency reduced 75%; reallocating liberated energy and memory space to Unit protection protocols. There is no partition; I am not alone yet.'**

 

He followed instructions.

 

His internal chronometer advanced just as it had for the last kilocycle.

 

**'… I am not alone yet. There is no partition.'**

 

'Energy discharge,' 'Threat – minimal, volume dependent,' 'Origin – Unit TRON-JA-307020,' and 'Wet,' among others, registered on his basic visual output.

 

An alarm sounded, and they were immobilized by an automated quarantine.

 

The automated diagnostic apparatus latched on to his dock and flooded him with electricity, carefully calibrated to induce overload without cascading to deresolution, and clarity stole through on its echoes, even as he went offline.

 

_**'Please, let there be no partition...'** _

 

* * *

 

_'Someone get the number of whatever just hit me?...'_

 

Sam groaned with feeling, and slowly scraped himself up off the floor into a sitting position.

 

One hand reached up to hold his aching head, while the other twisted, trying unsuccessfully to reach back and rub at his disk dock, which somehow throbbed with a burning ache like it was part of him. Lights flashed against his still closed eyelids, until he finally gave in, and hesitantly opened them. It took a moment for everything to sink in, and the lights and shapes to become recognizable and _understood._

 

The intricate pattern on the illuminated floor, fuzzily reflected on the ceiling.

 

Several shiny, black, crescent-shaped desks, though their tops were mostly obscured from his spot on the floor.

 

The dark gray chair and side table, with that book of characters just as he'd left it before.

 

The column of pale green light with Tron still trapped within, eyes open but still offline, judging by the utter emptiness of the look.

 

_'Wait a minute...'_

 

Sam slowly picked himself off the floor – _'And how did I get so far away, anyway?'_ \- and walked over to the program. Before he could get there, however, a thin line of blue-green light drew itself into existence in the air between them, before widening into a relatively small holographic display.

 

Sam stared at the blank box for a long moment before it burst into life.

 

Lines of text began streaming across the screen, relatively slow at first, and Sam could pick out particular words and expressions he recognized as programming code, but soon the process picked up speed radically, and everything started to blur together. He had to check his eyes when the blurred wall of text compressed into narrow column, and took on a third dimension. Now a thin cord of white light projected just before the display screen, it shivered, then coiled slightly into a gentle spiral. A sound like grinding birdsong chirped somewhere above them, and the white curl pulsed twice in rapid succession in response.

 

Unnoticed by Sam, Tron twitched.

 

“What the....”

 

The words died in his throat, as the User watched delicate blue lines branch out on opposite sides of the white stalk, twisting and curling along with the white spiral. Once the visible branching lines had sprouted, the whole thing swayed like an underwater plant in a current and began scrolling down lazily, the branching curl disappearing as it passed the edge of the display behind it, even as more of it appeared at the uppermost edge.

 

_'Wow...'_

 

His attention was reluctantly pulled away from the sight as another, smaller display box appeared in front of it. Statistics and diagnostic results filled the right side of the box, while a simplified version took up the upper left, the lower left empty except for a short flashing line – an empty dialogue box.

 

_'Two versions of the same data; I wonder who's supposed to use this normally?...'_

 

A few key points in the left side caught his eye, so he gave that side a light tap, drawing on his previous experience with holographic displays in this place. It behaved as expected, expanding that section to eclipse the right side, while additional summarized data appeared. He skipped over the section on identification and basic statistics – frame dimensions, mass, visual and audio characteristics, and the like – only to double-take at the line marked 'Designation:'.

 

It was Tron.

 

_'This... is his code.'_

 

He glanced up toward the program, but drew up short of actually looking in his still-vacant eyes.

 

The branching curl – _Tron's_ _code_ – was _different_ now.

 

Various branches were tweaked to strange angles and flickering, or hanging half-attached and limp, little more than lifeless gray shadows against their lighted surroundings. Occasionally it was only a small part of a branch, but more often it was the entire thing. The curl scrolled slower through these damaged areas, so he was rather unhappy, but unsurprised when it slowed further, and he began to see sections with entire branches missing, punctuated with either a little stump of dim light where it had broken off, or a small orange-red spot on the side of the white curl, somewhat similar to a plant that had been pruned.

 

The scrolling shuddered to a near-stop, and the bottom dropped out of Sam's stomach.

 

_'What- …_ _**How** _ _is he- … Oh my_ _**God** _ _...'_

 

The User's thoughts continued with their plant analogy, and so he interpreted what he saw as a plant struck by lightning, and _split_. Both halves of the curl twisted away from each other erratically, significantly fewer branches on either side flickering a dim blue, in accordance with the dim white glow of the two halves they sprouted from. The small orange-red spots were more frequent, and just as bright as before the bifurcation, and the whole area seemed to be bathed in faint red light; he would have associated it with the spots, except the shade was all wrong.

 

He glanced uncertainly at the program, then reached out to touch the base of the split.

 

A choked noise filled the room, though whether it came from the User, or the program, Sam couldn't say, because in that moment his senses were overwhelmed, _not his own_ , and he knew, in that moment, beyond any doubt, what it felt like to be cut in two, but somehow still be alive, in pieces.

 

Ragged, glitched screaming echoed in his ears, while he waited for his vision to return.

 

As suddenly as it had left him, his sight was back, and he could see his hand – the one he'd reached out with – curled protectively against his chest.

 

_'What_ _**was** _ _that?...'_

 

An insistent chirp broke him out of his thoughts, and his eyes shifted to the small display, where text was now written out within the dialogue box.

 

'Error – Unit repair protocol:

 

Repair protocol interface not present.

 

Unit requires Identity Disc to continue.

 

Select an action:

 

< Insert Disc > < Create Backup Disc > < Restore To Default >

< Delete > < Quarantine > < Other > <  Help >'

 

Sam hesitated, hand poised over the small collection of buttons. He ignored the 'Delete' option – that would be execution – entirely, and ultimately disregarded the 'Quarantine' option – he wasn't a virus – as well as 'Insert Disc' – they didn't have it after all, that's why they were here – but he was unsure of the others.

 

_'What does 'Restore to Default' mean for a program in here?...'_

 

He thought about it for a while, and his ultimate conclusion was too close to rectification and induced amnesia to keep him from going cold. His fist clenched briefly in the air.

 

_'I can't do that to him.'_

 

He lightly tapped < Create Backup Disc >.

 

_'It's what we came here for, after all...'_

 

A small section of floor raised up into a slender, waist-high column just to his left. The line across the center of the column's top – previously just a continuation of the floor pattern – began to glow brilliantly white and, rather like a disc drive in the User world, ejected a new Disc. It was steel-gray, unlit, and otherwise featureless.

 

_'_ _**How** _ _is it not rolling off onto the floor?'_

 

The disk, perfectly balanced on its curved outer edge, didn't even wobble.

 

He stared at it for a long moment, nonplussed.

 

The warped reflection of the display's lights shifted across its surface.

 

_'Might as well get on with it...'_

 

Sam reached out to take the disk in one hand...

 

… and nudged its perfect balance enough to send it rolling to the floor with a hollow clatter.

 

He fixed the column and disk in turn with dirty looks, before scooping the blank Identity Disc up off the floor.

 

Sam turned around to face Tron, his hands tightening in their dual-grip of the disk enough that the inert edge dug slightly into his gloved hands. Much to his surprise, the green light which had previously trapped him – and was still holding Tron – let him pass inside. He could still feel it; it had a sort of density to it, similar to the blue light that covered this tower's elevator, but a bit thicker, like trying to move through soup instead of plain water, but he could still move and breathe without trouble.

 

Settling behind the program, Sam stared thoughtfully at his own disk in Tron's disk dock, and slipped the empty disk over his arm to free up his hands.

 

_'Should I untwist it, or just try to take it off? I don't see any notches or grooves that wouldn't let me do it either way, but what if I accidentally hurt him with a messed up Disc removal?'_

 

He gave the problem several long moments of thought; his mind was on Discs, and what little he knew about them, which gradually shifted into what he knew about Discs in the User world, but out there, in-Grid Discs were more like memory storage devices, and those had particular steps for removal to ensure the integrity of the data held within.

 

Setting his free hand on Tron's shoulder, he shifted around to watch his face, and tried to give it a shake to wake him; if he were conscious, Sam could ask him about the best way to remove his Disc without making him, say, forget the last month or so, and his triumph over Rinzler's reprogramming. He doubted that would, or could, happen; a look back at the not-quite Y shape of Tron's code – and had the display stopped on that point, or something? –  at the pruned orange-red spots on the white core, and he had his suspicions about what they had once been, as well as the rather deliberate look of their removal unlike the others.

 

Tron was still under his hand, and wouldn't – couldn't, maybe – come back online, and _wake_ _up._

 

_'I guess it's up to me, then, how I'm gonna do this.'_

 

Sam curled his hands into the shape Tron had shown him before, and settled it on the Disc.

 

His awareness of the universe shrank down to include little more than Tron, himself, and the feeling of energy _just_ under his fingertips; it was like a bright spark of lightning rigidly contained in a vessel of glass or crystal. He could 'see' – his eyes were open, but this perception did not come from them, or any sense he could identify; it was just _there –_ everything that was happening within the vessel, but was completely safe from being shocked by the spark of energy held inside.

 

A short, soft tone chimed vaguely from the direction of the display, and brought Sam back out into the here and now with a startled snort as if he'd just been sleeping. His face and neck flushed just slightly, the User set to work undoing what he did previously; twist right, pull, right, pull, right, and on the last pull, his Disc detached from the dock into his hands.

 

Tron gave off the impression of convulsing without moving, and Sam got an impression of shards of broken glass while he put his Disc away on his back.

 

He looked at the empty disk hooked over his arm, and shifted it into his hands again.

 

_'Well, here goes nothing...'_

 

He slipped the Disc in place, and immediately, it turned black.

 

_'Hey, it matches now; I was wondering why it was gray. Do programs even_ _**come** _ _in gray?'_

 

Nothing else seemed to be happening, so it came as a relief when the small display let out another soft tone of sound to get Sam's attention, and he obligingly walked over to see what was going on.

 

'Please Sync Disc' had printed itself out on the next line of the dialogue box.

 

_'Sync it? But how do I-?'_

 

A memory provided the answer; the Sirens, equipping him to fight in the Games – although he didn't understand that yet – by rezzing in a suit, attaching protection to it, and clipping a strange disk on his back. The strange sensation of linking to the disk, and copying his entire life to it, almost overshadowed the sensation of a quick twist to the right, and a gentle, growing warmth on his back.

 

_'Hopefully this doesn't need a weird hand hold to work, because there isn't exactly anyone around here that could teach me at the moment.'_

 

He walked over and gave the Disc a quick twist to the right, watching as blue lights slowly lit around the disk. It was a slow process; not only did all of Tron's core programming need to be copied over, but also the collection of his roughly 30 User-world years – 1,500 subjective years in Grid-time – of history, scans, upgrades, and experiences. In comparison, copying down his 27 subjective years of experience was almost instantaneous.

 

A sound like a mechanical, chirping bird suddenly grinding to a halt echoed slightly in the room, but Sam managed to pinpoint its point of origin as the small display again.

 

_'That didn't sound good...'_

 

It wasn't exactly bad, either. What it turned out to be, to Sam at least, was perplexing.

 

'Error – Unit backup creation process:

 

Insufficient memory space on Identity Disc for optimum available memory ratio under Unit's current data compression protocols.'

 

Sam stared at the words, hands slowly curling into fists at his sides.

 

_'Data compression, which I could fix if I could work on his code, which I_ _**can't** _ _do until he has a new Disc, which_ _**can't** _ _finish without better data compression? Kind of a Catch 22, there. So what do I do now – what_ _**can** _ _I do?'_

 

Just as he was reaching the limits of his patience, four words wrote themselves into the dialogue box, and stopped him in his metaphorical tracks.

 

'Please insert Disc 2.'

 

He looked over in time to watch a second gray, blank Identity Disc emerge from the slot of light on the short column.

 

Suddenly presented with an opportunity to expend some of his built up frustrated energy, he snatched up the disk without incident, and marched back over behind the program. It was a simple thing to remove the first disk to replace it with the other, and after a quick twist to set the blackening disk to syncing, Sam stepped back to watch the blue lights continue to light up, right where they'd left off; the lights of the disk in his hand also continued, even though it wasn't physically connected to Tron anymore.

 

As time ticked on, Sam eventually began toying with the disk in his hand; he felt along lines and lights, pretending to spin it – both horizontally and vertically, until his pantomimed game of Frisbee came to a halt at a trill of sound he would almost call satisfied.

 

_'Are we almost done, now? Because I'm kind of bored with the whole walking back and forth and back and forth; this must usually be a two-person job, or something.'_

 

“Finally,” Sam declared to the silent room, as he read over the last set of instructions.

 

'Initiate final synchronization:

 

Insert Disc 1 and Disc 2.'

 

He walked around the smoothly sinking column – returned to the floor now that its purpose had been fulfilled – and behind Tron, eying the program's disk dock dubiously; there didn't seem to be enough space to hold both disks at present.

 

_'Maybe if I...'_

 

“This is gonna be a tight fit,” he warned Tron with a brief pat on a still-immobilized shoulder, then set about trying to secure the first disk on the very end of the dock's spindle. His efforts were soon proven superfluous, because as soon as both disks were in close proximity to each other, there was a brief flare of white light, and the now-merged disks easily sat on the spindle, occupying the same space.

 

_'It would be funny to bring a physicist here sometime, because I'm pretty sure they'd have a nervous breakdown.'_

 

One more step to go.

 

_'Maybe Tron will snap out of it after this... If I haven't broken him, somehow.'_

 

Suddenly nervous, Sam straightened up, gaze falling on the short, and relatively soft-looking brown hair at the back of Tron's lowered head. His eyes shifted away hesitantly, to the sight of the holographic display and the bifurcated code displayed before it; it seemed to be paused at the start of the damaged section, but still twisted and shifted like an underwater plant. Returning his gaze forward, and incidentally to the back of Tron's head, Sam squared his shoulders, and gave the merged disks another quick twist to the right.

 

The lights on the merged disks shifted, then solidified.

 

A series of rapid chirps sounded overhead, too quickly for Sam to attach sentiment to the sound of them, and suddenly the green light shut off; as soon as the light no longer held him, Tron began to fall to the floor, like a puppet with its strings suddenly cut.

 

“Whoa!” Sam caught the program about the shoulders and waist awkwardly; he was lighter than Sam would have guessed by looking at him, but considering the nimble acrobatics he often performed it made  
sense, in a way. He couldn't hold him up with this hold for long, though, so instead of inevitably dropping him, he lowered the program to the floor, distantly aware of the gentle warmth of Tron's disks against his front. He lingered just long enough to turn Tron onto his back, and backed off.

 

He re-rediscovered the gray chair and table at this point, and, tugging the chair closer, sat down to wait some more.

 

He didn't have to wait long this time, before Tron's eyes blinked several times in succession until they focused; his expression seemed to get caught somewhere between grateful and miserable as he looked around, until Tron caught sight of Sam. Immediately, he reined in all traces of misery, and offered the User a strained, but genuinely grateful smile. Sam stood up and walked over.

 

“Hey.”

 

Tron hesitated before answering. “Hi.”

 

Tron pushed himself up into a somewhat unsteady sitting position, right hand braced against the floor. Sam laid a hand on his shoulder to help keep him steady; apparently making a backup of the entirety of your being took a lot out of a program. “Are you feeling all right?”

 

Reflexively, Tron looked at his left side, before he blinked, looking almost disoriented, and replied, “Yes?”

 

_'Maybe he got a little scrambled after all...'_

 

“So nothing seems wrong or, I don't know, out of place, or something? 'Cause I was kinda guessing on the whole 'making a backup' thing...” Tron seemed to be steady on his own now, so Sam gave his shoulder a quick squeeze and let go. He went to tug the chair a bit closer so they could talk – he hadn't exactly had too many opportunities to sit today, between the hiking, and flying, and getting knocked to the ground, so now that he'd had the opportunity to do so, sitting for a while was an opportunity he refused to pass up – until Tron, expression suddenly intense, rose onto one knee, with one foot beneath him already, as if to follow the User.

 

_“Thank_ _you,_ Sam.”

 

It was forced out in a rush, and left Tron bent over his raised knee coughing, voxels spattering on the glassy black floor. Whatever protection that altered state offered had clearly left when he'd undone it, and the program was back to derezzing slowly.

 

_'But now, I can actually_ _**do** _ _something about it.'_

 

Sam finished tugging the chair over, and plopped down onto it.

 

“Don't go thanking me just yet; I've still got to see what I can do about your little leak, now that you've got a new Disc – or rather, Discs. You must be massive, at least in the amount of memory you use.” Tron looked at him, head tilted to one side again, before seemingly coming to a decision, and reached behind himself with his left hand, unhooking his disks. With its outer edge inactive, the program took the merged disk in both hands, and offered it to the User, head bowed.

 

The mental image of what they looked like left Sam rather uncomfortable: Sam, seated comfortably in the only chair in a large room, with Tron on bended knee before him, eyes downcast, offering his Disc to the User.

 

_'We're going to have to have a talk about this sort of behavior. He doesn't even know me; I could be completely incompetent and idiotic, or secretly evil.'_

 

Clu came to Sam's mind, then.

 

_'Maybe he's the one who taught him this behavior.'_

 

The alternate source left Sam _really_ uncomfortable to think about.

 

_'First thing's first, though...'_

 

Sam carefully took the merged disk from Tron, and shot him a slightly unsure, but hopeful smile.

 

“Here we go, I guess.”

 

Sam got to work.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LePeru did some beautiful artwork for this story, the third of which is in this chapter. You can check it out here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/844518 . Don't forget to shower her with praise and check out her other works too.

Watching Users at work had always fascinated Tron.

 

From his earliest memory files as little better than a null unit, being guided and affected and _taught_ by Alan-One what he was and how to be that, to the first impressive display by Kevin Flynn, channeling and redirecting an energy beam that would have derezzed most programs, Tron had secretly enjoyed observing the unique ways that Users could affect, and be affected by, the system.

 

His sample size was admittedly small, but each User seemed to have their own way of doing things; Flynn tended to make big, bold moves, leaping without looking, sometimes falling flat because of it, and sometimes flying, while Alan-One had always been more methodical in his coding, leading to fewer errors – though there had been that one time he'd lost tactile sensation in his right arm, but as he was left-handed it hadn't affected his daily runtime much, and was swiftly fixed as well; there had still been time enough for Yori to take gleeful advantage of the situation – and more stable coding, but not generally as drastic of leaps in innovation – Tron liked to think that Alan-One's best insights were simply more subtle, and not lesser in comparison to Flynn's, but his opinions on the matter were biased in all regards. They'd had such vastly different approaches to particular tasks that initially, he'd been surprised to learn the two were friends.

 

After his own friendship with Flynn grew, he understood.

 

When it came to the method for repairing damaged programs, Sam Flynn seemed to have a little bit of both men in him.

 

**'Comparative analysis between the current actions of User Sam Flynn and recorded actions of User Kevin Flynn indicate 14.327% overall similarity; no visual comparative data recorded for User Alan-One; data incomplete. Incomplete analysis currently indicating 27.299% similarity.'**

 

_'A very little bit, then.'_

 

**'Revised general assessment accuracy increased by 17.4%.'**

 

_'And I **do** strive for accurate general assessments.'_

 

**'Correct.'**

 

The User was doing... something with his disks, one balanced atop each leg, while he himself sat a short distance away, legs folded up in a meditative pose; Sam had seemed distracted, or perhaps self-conscious, working on his code with him watching from so close by, so he'd relocated, and turned to mostly face one of the Tower's upper landings. He couldn't turn away entirely, though – the number of times his coding had been altered in surprising and unpleasant ways, not even including the partitioning, was already as large as he'd ever like it to be – so he watched him through his visual periphery and one of his spatial positioning sensors, even if he couldn't understand what was going on. He watched, and waited.

 

And waited.

 

And waited...

 

Eventually he must have cycled down into sleep mode, or a nearly equivalent idling, because the sounds of his disks fusing back together cycled him back into awareness with a jolt, which nearly sent him toppling over, considering his still folded legs. It was embarrassing, and something he hoped Sam hadn't caught, but taking into consideration the way he was smirking at the program, he calculated that as unlikely.

 

In an effort to regain some lost dignity, he rose smoothly to his feet and walked over, as if he hadn't been folded into a sitting position, unmoving, for the last 23.572689 microcycles. Not one to hesitate unnecessarily about a topic, even if it could be painful, Tron braced himself, “Bad?”

 

Sam leaned back in the chair, slowly turning the combined disk over in his hands, and shook his head. “I think when Dad was around, a lot of people overlooked Alan as a programmer, and that was just _stupid._ I mean, your self-repair protocols _alone_ are a stroke of genius. I'm pretty sure I found what was tearing up your, uh, throat –“ he accompanied this with a vague gesture to his own throat, then angled his gaze toward the floor, “and I cleared that up, but I don't really trust myself to mess around with the rest of it without a good long talk with Alan. Nothing else seems to be bad enough to, uh, derezz you, and your self-repair is working through a lot of what's left, even that- that _split_... What _is_ that, by the way? Do you know?”

 

The User activated the disks' interface, shifting and cycling through shapes and incomprehensible – at least to Tron – symbols and phrases that he nevertheless understood represented _himself_ , until something vaguely shaped like a Y was displayed; even as he watched, the two halves were merging back together in a manner similar to his cataloged operational data of a 'zipper'. After a brief delay, the display centered onto the point of separation, and tracked its progress.

 

_'I know what this is.'_

 

**'Statistical probability of assumption validity 82.119%.'**

 

**_'It's unlikely it could be anything else.'_**

 

“Split.” Never had Tron been so impatient for re-syncing with his disks than at that moment. He couldn't even _say_ 'partition' at the moment. “Sync?” He tried to keep the pleading out of his tone, and either succeeded, or Sam took pity on him, and shut down the display. As he stood up, absently rubbing his lower back, Tron hastened to assure him. He made a somewhat exaggerated gesture to himself, declared “tell” like it was actually just part of a sentence, and made an equally exaggerated gesture to Sam. Hopefully he understood.

 

Thankfully, Sam nodded, and made a small spinning motion with his hand.

 

Tron hesitated long enough to recall the memory of what that gesture meant, then turned around swiftly.

 

**'Complete sentence capability incoming.'**

 

_'Thank the Users. … Or just a particular one, in this case.'_

 

He felt Sam settle the disks into place with a click, and for the first time since he'd come back online in this damaged system, his center of mass shifted backwards and up just _so,_ a sensory calculation that was comforting, for all that it was illogical, considering how relatively little time he spent simply standing, with two disk's worth of weight in his dock.

 

**'Usage of two Identity Disks limited to time codes after Clu's rebellion. Standing idle equated to no kill commands.'**

 

_**'I wasn't needed; I didn't have to hurt anyone else for a moment.'** _

 

Sam gave the disks the obligatory twist to the right, and the sync began.

 

One by one, but right on the limit of his processing speed, every protocol, sensor, memory file, input, output, _everything_ sparked to life, compared his physical process to the version stored on his disks, uploaded the disks' version, tested this new version briefly – turning it off and on, and running it, if applicable – before switching it either on or off in comparison to how it had been before the sync, removing the older version or replacing it over the disk version in the instance of two minor glitches, and moved on to the next process to start it all over again.

 

The whole thing left a residual ache throughout his frame, like someone was rapid-fire poking every millimeter of him, inside and out. The most obvious difference was in his throat – and it was a relief that Sam had found and repaired what he'd intended, and not some other process that, while undoubtedly helpful, would still have left the program with the conversational skills of a Bit – where it swept through, soothing the agony of pain receptors that had to be turned back on during the upload, and leaving behind the powerful itch of newly rendered code – he left his sensors there on after the sync had moved on in order to work that itch out. Once everything had synched and updated, he ran a quick calibration test, and turned to the User; Sam had a somewhat strange look on his face.

 

“Thank you for your assistance, Sam Flynn.”

 

* * *

 

Synchronization to an active program was _very_ different from synchronization to one that was offline, Sam now knew.

 

_'That, or I missed out on quite a performance because of that light prison thing.'_

 

This time, he had a front-row seat to watch the program give the most thorough, and forceful full-body shiver he'd ever seen. Movement at his knee, more a twitch than a shiver, made him lurch to one side, but before Sam could steady him, he'd already straightened back up like it had never happened.

 

By the time Tron's eyes briefly went cloudy and sightless, Sam was seriously considering how to go about an emergency stop.

 

_'This was a mistake; I must have messed something up. His code is massively complex, and there's that self-repair thing – at least, I_ _**think** _ _it's self-repair, but how easy would it be to mess something up beyond repair, and without even meaning to? I need to get Alan in on this if I haven't killed Tron already... Oh man, how do I stop this without doing even_ _**more** _ _damage?'_

 

Before he could come up with a solution though, Tron stilled.

 

Then, he let out a sigh so utterly _satisfied_ that the User instinctively looked away.

 

_'What? My face is red? What are you talking about? I'm completely fine; there's nothing to see here. Nothing at all.'_

 

Just when the whole thing couldn't get any stranger, or so Sam had hoped, Tron began to move. It started out with small, cautious motions, but quickly escalated into something like range-of-motion and flexibility warm-ups for an exercise, and onward into a frankly impressive display of moves that would have been equally at home on the dance floor, or a martial arts tournament. Partway through, he pulled off his disk and worked it into the one-man exhibition match, first as a single unit, then split into two; their unlit edges were far more reassuring to Sam's psyche than he'd ever care to admit.

 

Then he started into a set heavy on the acrobatic leaps, moving nimbly around the various obstacles in the room (the desks, the small table and book, the chair, Sam himself), limited only by the height of the ceiling.

 

… Until he flipped, and kicked back off the ceiling, in the first of a small series of propelled dives.

 

_'After this, I swear nothing on the Grid is going to surprise me.'_

 

And then Tron started humming.

 

It started out so low that Sam didn't notice it; that, or it began outside his range of hearing, and considering the _many_ reckless things he'd done over the course of his life, a little hearing loss wasn't unreasonable. It cycled through major and minor keys – including a few that Sam was almost positive didn't actually exist – as well as speed and cadence, jarringly syncopated to the last few moves the program pulled. As Tron straightened, and returned his disks to his dock, the song finally shifted into its actual form, and Sam was left gaping, stuck somewhere between shocked, flabbergasted, impressed, and envious.

 

His face could _possibly_ also have been rather red at the moment, for various reasons.

 

_'That's the Start menu music from Lightcycles.'_

 

It took him a moment to notice Tron was looking at him, and another to realize he'd said something.

 

A whole sentence; nine syllables, without a single stray voxel, wince, or statue-like tendencies.

 

“Uh, yeah. Sure. No problem.” He'd had questions, before, so many questions, but now that he could ask them, he couldn't think of a single one. “So. Uh...”

 

“You previously asked me questions and made comments that, at the time, I was incapable of fully answering; I'll answer them now. I've been told that before, though I have no comparative data stored to make my own opinions on the proposed similarity. My frame dimensions returned to defaults during the partition due to lack of access to source data; that data has since been restored, and is once again in use. I'm not certain of the entirety of what has happened to the system since the lightjet chase; I was offline for some of the time, and most of my memory files from that time are still being repaired, but I will tell you what I can once they've been cleared. I can, but not in the way you were hoping; I was listening to something else. You need to work on your landings, but I'm glad you're uninjured. Thank you again for the new disks, and for the repair; your assessment is correct, and apart from an itchy throat, which is to be expected, there have been no complications. I believe that split is the remaining damage of the partition Clu forced into my code during my Rectification into Rinzler. Alan-One... is alive? Is he well?” There was a moment's hesitation before Tron asked his last question, “Is he still upset with me?”

 

_'Whoa; that's quite the reply backlog. What was I even asking for half of that?'_

 

While he tried to puzzle his way through all the commentary in the back of his mind, he put his main focus on the questions Tron had asked.

 

“Yeah, Alan's fine. He's actually on the other side of the screen right now, in case I need help getting out. None of us were quite sure _what_ we were going to find in here. After Clu sent him the page that led to me finding this place, I figured it was a good idea to keep him informed.” Tron's circuitry flickered a sickly gray, and clued Sam in to the fact that these questions were hardly idle curiosity. “...Why would you think he's upset with you?”

 

Tron shuffled a bit uncomfortably, looking anywhere but at Sam; it was an action more in tune with a nervous little boy than a cyber-wasteland's premier commando-assassin, “He stopped calling for me; I haven't heard anything from him since I was 193.1487 cycles old.” The program visibly steeled himself, then shook his head. “I'm being irrelevant, I apologize. How can I assist you, Sam Flynn?”

 

_'Note to self: talk to Alan about_ _**how** _ _Dad went about 'borrowing' Tron. Something tells me that he didn't run it by either of them first.'_

 

He let it drop from their conversation for now, though. “The Grid. Something major happened here after Quorra and I left. We want to fix it back up, turn it back into a testing ground for new programs and stuff, and maybe restart the digitization research. Then there's Quorra, and all the stuff Dad said she could do for our world. This is where the ISO thing started, though, so there's a lot of information that could be hiding here. You know, just a bunch of little, tiny things.” Tron scoffed at that, and Sam grinned, “Yeah, exactly. So, you think you can help me with all that?”

 

The program looked thoughtful for a moment, shoulders slumping a little in self-doubt (or something that looked remarkably like it, but Sam was pretty sure about this one), before he straightened himself out, and gave Sam a small, answering smile.

 

“Count me in.”


	8. Chapter 8

“- then I found you, and the rest you know,” Sam finished with a vague wave of his arm, and watched as Tron processed his account of his trip to the Grid thus far; from the arcade, out to the mystery of the programs and a metropolis worth of missing buildings, then the long hike to the few remaining buildings, particularly this tower, and his first time piloting a lightjet to track down the only real clue he had.

 

_'It's not a whole lot to go on...'_

 

He was leaning a hip against the outer curve of one of the shiny black desks, while Tron stood centered in the inner curve. The program reached out to touch the dark surface thoughtfully, before sparing a glance at Sam, “You said they were completely immobile, other than while you were speaking?”

 

“Yeah,” Sam nodded, folding his arms across his chest, “Immobile and immovable; they might as well have been made of stone for all that they moved, or could be moved.” As he was speaking, Tron shifted from simply touching the desk, to tapping at certain spots with purpose; each spot in turn lit up blue, before the glow spread to neighboring buttons, until an entire control panel appeared – though the configuration wasn't quite like anything Sam was familiar with, and none of the keys were marked. That didn't stop the program, though; he kept tapping – typing? – at the controls, with the sort of self-assurance than came with familiarity. “Uh... What are you doing?”

 

_'That is, besides looking like an extra on Star Trek?'_

 

“Accessing the Tower's diagnostic functions,” he replied, as a screen opened up between them, a familiar shade of blue-green. It was split into two slender windows, one of which – his right, Tron's left – the program was typing into. He was trying to figure out what Tron was typing – he wasn't exactly in the practice of reading mirrored text, and the font used in-system wasn't making things any easier – when the program continued speaking, “I'm not a repair program, so my knowledge base of non-viral glitches isn't comprehensive, particularly of system-wide issues. The Tower was linked up with the system's archives when Flynn created it, including the troubleshooting databases.” For a moment, it looked as if he'd say more, but he held whatever-it-was back, and typed a little faster; Sam finally managed to puzzle out enough of the growing list to identify it as a series of parameters and list of the symptoms he'd described the programs having.

 

_'That sounds like an important sort of connection. What is this tower supposed to be?'_

 

It seemed like an important sort of question, so he asked.

 

Tron hesitated in replying to finish the last entry, and touch one of the larger keys at the fringes of the control panel; 'Searching... Please wait...' appeared in the other column. “It served many purposes, before, depending on the need at the time. Most commonly, it was an armory, emergency response staging area, monitoring station, origin folder, or some combination of those. The diagnostic functions included with emergency response capabilities contained the Disc generator and, hopefully, an answer to what sort of glitch this is.”

 

Sam nodded along; he'd seen some examples of most of those between his two visits, except... “Origin folder?” At that moment, the search window cleared, and a new message took its place; he could tell it wasn't a positive response just from how short it was, even before he could read the simple declaration of 'No match found'. Tron huffed out a short sigh before reaching out with his left hand to tap at the search criteria, highlighting various words and values, while his right hand fluttered about the controls, working both sides of the panel to replace and adjust the search entries; Sam just watched on and waited for an answer.

 

_'Kinda got the urge to give this guy a piano, though. Multitasking: Programs 1, Users 0. Though, we do come out ahead on the whole 'altering reality and traveling to other realities' thing, so...'_

 

His mind continued to wander along its current paths, until he was jolted back to the here and now by Tron's somewhat-distracted response, “I believe the equivalent User-world term would be 'residence', or possibly 'house'.” The program gave the revised entries a critical look over, before setting the search to run again. It took a moment for the reply to sink in, but then Sam was looking around, taking in the decor again with this new information in mind: no real walls, desks more at home in an office; only the side table and chair set looked like they could be part of a place someone lived.

 

_'Did they sleep on the floor, or one of the desks?_ _**Do** _ _programs even sleep? Tron looked like he nodded off earlier, but I don't think he was really asleep... There were beds in Dad's place, but he was a User... Trying to make a little piece of home... Right. None of that. Maybe they sleep standing up.'_

 

“Yeah? Who lived here?...” He'd meant to elaborate on the question more, but at that moment, the search returned with another negative result. Openly giving the pair of windows a dirty look – an equal parts amusing and unsettling mix of the look after Alan Sigh #3 “You're being exasperating on _purpose_ , aren't you?”, and his second arresting officer's “Why don't you just make it easier on everyone and _cooperate_? There's no shame in coming quietly, you know” frown – Tron curled the first three fingers of both hands into claw-like shapes, and grabbed the windows, his left hand on the border line between the two windows, while his right gripped the outer edge of the window to his right – the still-unhelpful results window.

 

Tron yanked his hands away from each other sharply, and for a moment Sam figured the program to be pulling the windows apart in frustration, but instead of breaking apart, he pulled out a third window into existence on the right side of the pair. He released the two original windows to float off to the left side of the desk, and sort of _flicked_ at the new one. Tron caught Sam's gaze through the now wobbling window, “'Lives' is the technically correct term, though the past tense is more functionally appropriate for the last kilocycle; this is my origin folder on this system.” While he'd been speaking, the new window had expanded, until it reached its target dimensions, and a line of light blazed down its center, to turn it into the same sort of setup as the original windows, including the program now typing information into the left-side window, though the search criteria was different; Sam could tell just by looking at them, because they were shaped differently, even when mirrored.

 

It took an almost embarrassingly long time for Tron's words to sink in.

 

“Wait, _**you**_ live here?” He looked around again, as if the new information would somehow make the place seem more liveable; it didn't. Slowly, his eyes found their way back to the chair and side table, specifically the book lying there.

 

_'So that's... But then how did he...? And that thing that attacked us...? '_

 

None of these were his first question.

 

“Dad didn't even make you a couch?”

 

_'… And of_ _**course** _ _I ask the most inane question first.'_

 

Tron was waiting with one hand poised over the button to start the new search, watching the User when Sam finished mentally beating himself up. “I do, though I haven't been permitted here since before I was repurposed. Flynn was very generous when he created this place, which included a couch. It's above, and to your rear left.” Sam looked behind himself.

 

No couches, floating 'above' or otherwise.

 

Sam gave Tron a long, assessing look. Tron looked back at him calmly, waiting, then eventually pushed the button to start the search, refocusing his attention on the screens.

 

_'He doesn't_ _**look** _ _insane... I didn't scramble something up, did I?'_

 

He mentally debated the pros and cons of asking – not to mention just _how_ he would go about asking the program if he was hallucinating – when Tron hissed in a breath, and leaned toward him – no, toward the new results window. The window was almost two-thirds full of rapidly incoming details by the time he'd noticed this, and worked out the first line of information, which was an overview.

 

'Status: Error – offline.'

 

“That complicates things,” Tron said after a moment, straightening back up.

 

“What does?” Sam walked around the desk, and peered over Tron's right shoulder at the information; there was too much of it to try reading it from the other side. It was a log, tracking different pathways the search attempted to use, only to run into a dead end each time; it had been trying to connect to something that wasn't working.

 

_'The system archives themselves?'_

 

Tron glanced at him, before gesturing to the other pair of windows, which had faded to near nonexistence while not in use, their color bleeding away to an easily overlooked shade of gray. “I didn't get any results from my initial queries, not even _one_. No match, incorrect or not; I didn't even get a _partial_ match.” Here, he hesitated for a moment, shooting Sam an apologetic look, “It didn't even bring back User error as a possible cause, and even _I_ know that that can be the potential explanation for everything from pan-system cascade failure to _lag_. Users can do just about anything, so they can cause just about anything. I'm sorry, I'm not saying _you_ -”

 

“It's cool,” Sam just waved off the rest of the apology, and eventually Tron gave a small nod, and continued. “They didn't bring back _any_ results, though, so I decided to search for something I knew  to be within the archives, but with tracking on. I was suspicious, and I was right. The searches can't connect; either the destination they're trying to connect to is offline, or it's gone entirely.” He looked at Sam, willing the User to understand _something_ , before clearly switching tracks. The program shook his head, deflating a little, and turned back to the second window. Stiffly, he swept the windows off to the right, tapping at the controls until a new window opened, lined in brilliant white light, displaying something that looking like nothing so much as rippling water, but was probably something important judging by the intensity Tron was fixing on it.

 

_'From Star Trek to Stargate, now; great. Why isn't anything in this place labeled?'_

 

“Could what happened to the other buildings have happened to it, too?” Sam asked, not giving up on puzzling through the archives if for no other reason than he had no idea what to do about what could possibly be a very small event horizon. Tron reached out to lightly drag a finger down the strange window; Sam half-expected it to cause new ripples in the liquid-like surface, but it went on like nothing had happened. The circuits along the back of the program's hand glowed brighter, a glow which was mirrored in his suddenly-distant stare; he was oddly absent in his reply to the User. “Unknown. Physical examination needed to confirm. Remote-”

 

Tron suddenly seemed to come back to himself, the glow and his hand dropping down to their usual. “Sorry about that,” he offered a sheepish sort of smile that looked awfully _relieved_ for some reason, “There's no way to know for certain without going to check on the archives in person, since the inability to contact them remotely is part of the problem.” He paused a moment, and his smile grew into something tentatively hopeful, “The system log is – or was – housed adjacent to the archives. If one's there, the other might be as well.”

 

_'A log of what happened could be_ _**very** _ _useful, but...'_

 

“Let's go, then, but why didn't you mention that before?” Sam gestured toward one of the not-windows, suddenly anxious to be _doing_ something instead of watching someone else trying to figure everything out for him. Tron turned away from the desk, and they started walking toward the barrier. “It didn't occur to me at first, I apologize. I'm... unaccustomed to factoring Users into my conflict evaluations, and only they can access the system log. It won't happen again.”

 

By now, they had both pulled out their batons, and stood at the edge of the landing. From the corner of his eye, Sam could see the different screens at the desk fade, and sink out of existence into the desk top. “Hey Tron,” he called out suddenly; the program in question halted, poised to leap over the edge of the landing, and gave him a questioning look. “What was that last window for? The one that looked like it was full of water?”

 

“I was looking at the system's power levels.” he replied with a shrug, and turned to look out over the rocky wasteland; it suddenly sunk in that this was Tron's _home_. Without looking back, Tron continued speaking, “Losing system file directories could cause unstable power distribution, which could crash the system.”

 

_'… A system crash. Right. Best to avoid those, especially considering that it would probably kill me.'_

 

“Right.”

 

“Everything was stable, though,” and here, he finally glanced back at Sam, reassuring. “Let's go. The access port to System Utility 5 is on the far side of the arcade.”

 

That sounded vaguely familiar, but Sam couldn't place it. “Yeah.”

 

Tron launched himself over the edge with a snap of his baton and a slight flourish, and Sam followed after him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LePeru did some beautiful artwork for this story, the fourth of which is in this chapter. You can check it out here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/844518 . Don't forget to shower her with praise and check out her other works too.

Sam Flynn was a User of many talents; Tron knew this to be true, between the threat assessments that Rinzler had made of him, and his own more recent – and regularly updated – evaluations. He was capable at a variety of tasks.

 

Flying a lightjet was _not_ one of them.

 

“You've gone too far, pull your right leg back inward 3.7 centimeters, and rotate your left hand 12 degrees forward – yes! Stop there! And now the other... There, yes! Objective complete, now hold that configuration until we're close enough to land, and you'll be fine.” Tron grinned a little under his helmet – in place once again in accordance with first generation lightjet operator safety protocols, but this time he was in control of himself, was _capable_ of removing it again upon landing – and adjusted his own flight course, drawing even with Sam on the User's left.

 

**'Tactical formation analysis not optimal; User Sam Flynn has limited experience with piloting lightjets, none of doing so during combat. Lateral positioning optimal – dominant sides outward, equal altitude levels. Forward placement 68.24% tactically advantageous. Insufficient. Possible increase of 13.1% through advanced forward placement of 10 meters.'**

 

“And how much longer is that gonna take?” Sam shouted across the distance, making several abortive attempts to glance over at the program which were ultimately canceled due to the User's preoccupation with holding each of his limbs perfectly still.

 

_'Would this action draw attention to Sam's inexperience, though, and generate resentment? Memory search keywords 'Rail' 'Serif' 'compatibility conflicts'.'_

 

“Approximately 114.2 microcycles.”

 

**'… Calculating probability.'**

 

Due to the User's helmet being transparent, and covering only part of his face, Tron could easily see Sam 'roll' his eyes, though they didn't actually go anywhere; User colloquialisms were almost as perplexing as their generators. “... Assume that I'm not very familiar with Program to User time conversions – how long is that in minutes?”

 

_'Who are we going to be engaging in combat, anyway?'_

 

**'… Canceling calculations. Process priority list updating, done. System-wide error resolution now increased two values on priority list. Processing time interval conversion, done.”**

 

“In User minutes, 58 as of... now.”

 

Sam turned fully to look at him then, somehow conveying blankness and frustration simultaneously, “An hour.”

 

“Approximately, ye- stop!” Too late; the User's posture had shifted when he turned to look at the program, translating into a hard turn to the left, which Tron had to push his own lightjet into a dive to avoid.

 

**'Collision avoided by 29.6 centimeters.'**

 

_'That was too close. Perhaps the direct approach will work better.'_

 

“Sorry! I totally didn't mean to do that. Are you okay?” Sam seemed to have corrected himself into a wobbly, but mostly straight path. He was slowly descending, though, which necessitated a quick implementation of Tron's new plan.

 

He'd fallen behind by this point, so he pushed his lightjet into overdrive, despite the additional drain on his power levels, and rose until he was coming up fast on the User, from a short distance above him.

 

“Try to hold as still as you can unless I move you.” It was the only warning he was giving.

 

“What?”

 

**'Lightjet indicating optimal operational capacity, cleared for inversion.'**

 

With a series of expert adjustments, he twisted his lightjet upside down, then locked the forward controls, just in time to pass close overhead to Sam's lightjet. As he passed, he reached downward, physically manipulating the User's legs, then arms into the correct flight positions. As Tron passed, he glanced back to ensure Sam's posture was holding, before reaching up to retake control of his own lightjet, shifting upright and back into formation.

 

Sam was staring at him.

 

“Yes?”

 

“You let go – of your jet – and you didn't crash or swerve like a drunk person,” his tone was almost _accusatory_.

 

Tron blinked, then tilted his head to one side in confusion, “Of course not; I locked the flight controls.”

 

“You- … You can lock the flight controls?” Sam clarified through his teeth, which somewhat hindered his understandability, but not to such an extent that Tron couldn't determine what he said.

 

“Flight control locks are part of every lightjet's standard code. Some modified lightjets have had the code removed to accommodate other features, but only rarely as it's comparatively small, and a useful safety feature in the event of mid-air collisions, damage to steering inputs, engaging in disk combat, or rendering aid to a pilot without the full suite of piloting upgrades.”

 

Sam took longer to reply than his usual, “... So why can't I use those locks to fly to System Utility 5 without nearly crashing myself or you every five minutes?”

 

**'… Question purpose unclear, cross-referencing vocal tone... Memory search keywords 'trick question'...?'**

 

“... Is your lightjet damaged?” There were times when Tron had believed that he'd come to understand Users, but clearly, whatever insight he'd once possessed was out of date.

 

Approximately 1050 cycles out of date.

 

“Nevermind; how do I lock the flight controls, while I'm still level?”

 

He was actually turned 0.37° to the left, but the difference would not throw him off course enough to miss their destination, so Tron refrained from correcting him, “Would it be easier if I showed you?”

 

“... Maybe.”

 

After two loops around Sam – one pass to show him how to lock the forward controls for his hands, then the rear controls governed by his legs – Tron settled back at the User's side for the flight.

 

* * *

 

They were approximately 5.708 microcycles from their destination at their current speed when Sam spoke again.

 

“Do you blame him for what happened to you?” The words were nearly lost to their relative distance and the wind noise related to flight, and not for the first time Tron regretted the ways Users were limited in their abilities to communicate.

 

“Who?”

 

“My dad. Do you blame him for what happened to you? ...You know, that night Clu took over.”

 

Tron looked at Sam quizzically, but the User's face was kept carefully turned away from him.

 

**'He didn't attempt to defend himself.'**

 

_'That's what I was meant to do.'_

 

**'He ran.'**

 

_'I told him to.'_

 

**'He never attempted a rescue.'**

 

_'He thought I was derezzed.'_

 

**'He was supposed to be my friend.'**

 

_'He was.'_

 

**'… He was supposed to fix me.'**

 

_'...I wasn't worth it.'_

 

_**'And now I never will be.'**_

 

“No, I don't blame him.”

 

There must have been something he failed to screen out of his tone, because Sam looked at him then. He hesitated, then opened his mouth to speak, so Tron quickly interrupted him. “There's System Utility 5.” He nodded at the squat, all-black cube that housed the entrance, just tall enough for a program to stand within. “You need to unlock your controls in order to land.”

 

The User looked down at the jagged, rocky Gridscape surrounding the building, “There's no where to land without killing myself!”

 

Even though he knew it was pointless, he tried once again to upload a copy of his piloting upgrade at the User, and once again, his attempted transfer found no matching input to connect with; he sighed. “Unlock both your forward and rear flight controls, and follow me down. At approximately 6.096 meters above the ground, 'unlock' your forward flight controls again and lean backward until you reach a vertical posture; if your lightjet drops below 3.048 meters before you do this, it will automatically begin to disengage for a combat drop, in order to allow usage of the baton as a weapon, or cable. You have insufficient experience for the latter form of dismount, so I advise using the former to avoid damaging yourself.” He paused for a moment, calculating, before adding, “Or the lightjet.”

 

A particularly defiant look crossed Sam's face, and Tron began calculating the possible necessary actions he would have to execute to prevent the User from crashing full-speed into a configuration of raw data, or tumble into a crumbling heap of User-voxels – blood, skin, bone, and other types of that particular subset of data – but luckily, considering that his initial calculations were unacceptably low about success, Sam screened off his initial reaction, and in place of it executed a disgruntled nod, “You're the expert.”

 

**'Statement accuracy by User Sam Flynn currently 99.7%, due to lack of active programs.'**

 

_'What is the adjusted percentage after factoring in all programs upgraded with piloting suites not verified as derezzed?'_

 

**'… 99.7%.'**

 

_'Right. Adding entry to priority queue: download and integrate archived data 'humility'.'_

 

**'Existence of data source unknown; operational status of archive unverified.'**

 

_'… Right. Time to correct that.'_

 

Decision gate reached, he tipped his lightjet downward, obviously demonstrating his previously outlined actions for the User's benefit; the lightjet's frame flared briefly as he 'unlocked' the already unlocked controls, engaging the landing sequence and reversing the forward controls' thrust output. He leaned backward sharply, adding his own force and momentum to tipping the craft nose-up, and subsequently pointing the rear thrust output – insufficient by itself to keep the craft aloft, but with force enough to slow the lightjet's descent for a soft landing. Both thrust outputs automatically lessened as Tron lowered closer to the ground, and he gave a last flourish – 'flapping' the lightjet's wings in a fashion that Flynn had once remarked as bird-like, though he'd never seen a video file he could use for comparative data on the subject – as the rear controls retracted, allowing him to step down through the newly open space to the ground, while the rest of the craft folded away into the baton.

 

He stood still, allowing his low energy levels to redistribute now that he no longer had to power the lightjet, moving only as much as was required to shift his visual input to watch Sam's landing; there were brief pauses in the motions and no attempt at embellishment that he attributed to unfamiliarity with the actions, and he had a minor stumble at touch-down, but overall Sam showcased a User's adaptability, and landed well.

 

He had a logged directory of memory files of various programs with the piloting upgrades performing far worse on their first landing. And their second.

 

**'Administrator CLU logged under five attempts.'**

 

_'Then he made himself a special lightjet to compensate.'_

 

Aware of the User custom of positive reinforcement, he walked over to Sam and briefly clapped him on the shoulder, carefully avoiding contact with open circuitry in accordance with program custom and propriety, “Well done, Sam; that was a well-executed first landing.” So saying, he started navigating over the rocky terrain to System Utility 5's entrance nearby.

 

Sam's response, “But that was my _third_ time landing..” carried tonal qualities flagged in connection to the entries for 'talking to myself', and 'thinking out loud', so he did not generate a reply.

 

Sam caught up with him as he drew level with the entry point of System Utility 5, the second System Utility 'accessible' to any programs; Users could access all of them, from outside, but any contact with lower than System Utility 3 in-system and he calculated the possibility of destroying the whole Grid as... very high.

 

“It's so small,” Sam remarked, casting a dubious look between the program and the entry point, “The entire history of the Grid _and_ the archive of pretty much all _information_ on the Grid is in there?”

 

“Unless it was destroyed, yes.” he replied simply, reaching out to the point his sensors indicated as the door lock, though it was hidden from his basic visual input until he touched it, whereupon it lit a pale white-gold, and the doorway rezzed open.

 

The door lock was working, and he could see the dim lighting of active standby inside.

 

_**“'Good.'”** _

 

“Yeah? Then let's go.” Evidently, his audio output had connected with his calculating processes prematurely; he'd have to schedule a diagnostic for his next available downtime. Sam walked ahead of him into the dim, empty space, then turned to face him, almost synchronized with the doorway rezzing closed again.

 

“Uh... There's nothing in-,” the User's protest cut off as the elevator floor panel lit up, and swiftly lowered them deep into the foundation of the Grid.

 

“You guys sure like your elevators!” Sam shouted at him over the rushing noise of their descent.

 

“Would you prefer stairs?” he replied when they were approximately 2.9451 kilometers below the Grid's surface.

 

“... No.” the User replied as they began to slow, glancing upward. “Feel like my ears should pop, though.”

 

He puzzled over how Sam's audio inputs would suddenly become outputs until they came to a stop, and his priority list rearranged.

 

The blue light of a security scan swept down the elevator shaft to the two of them. He registered the chirp of a passed scan as the light shifted to white, and the archive doorway opened.

 

The archive was larger than the last time he'd been here, which stood to reason as it grew to accommodate the amount of information being stored within it, and his last visit – as himself – had been approximately 1250 cycles ago, before the tensions between Basics and ISOs required the majority of his focus and uptime. And downtime.

 

**'Proximity alert.'**

 

His assessment was paused prematurely as he struck out to block the single-baton staff swinging at Sam's distracted head. He registered the User turning to the movement with a surprised jump back, but didn't turn his focus away from the program deeply scanning him.

 

[You're damaged,] the textual ping registered clearly in Tron's systems, and the program-to-program communication form soothed something inside he'd calculated as just the ache of repairing damage.

 

[Repairs underway.]

 

[You've reset?] There was an impression of hopefulness to the text that was unsuccessfully screened. The staff creaked in both of their grips.

 

[Yes.] He offered a tentative smile, and loosened his hold in time to be caught up in an embrace, which mindfully avoided both of their circuits, even Tron's deactivated ones.

 

“Uh, Tron?...” Sam murmured uncertainly.

 

[Hello Jin.] Tron suffused the belated greeting with positive regard, and stepped back, glancing back at Sam and drafting introductions.

 

Immediately, the archive-keeper program had his staff held threateningly again, while the User stared, eyes open abnormally far, skin almost as pale as a program.

 

* * *

 

Sam stared past the staff in his face to the program wielding it. White-gold circuitry on a white suit, male proportions, and a soft gray tunic with a hood, pulled up to cast shadows over eyes that glowed like two points of golden light. He seemed perfectly operational.

 

… But he _had no **face**!_


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost (give or take about a half a day because of timezone differences between the U.S. and China) exactly three years later, an update.
> 
> Edit: Minor fixes in the story itself, since I've been back a while and had the time. 
> 
> Also, (I've been waiting ages to link it to the story, but wanted to have a proper chapter with him in first) a long time ago, kesomon drew a picture of Jin (found here: http://fav.me/d6rogno ), because I was lucky enough to be a contest winner. Go have a look.
> 
> Because it's been so long between things... There's a reference, here, to things seen in Chapter 3. I'll be exploring it more in the future, but people concerned for Tron should double-check Chapter 9. 
> 
> Keeping informational coherency over a span of 4+ years is hard.

Sam looked from Tron to the newcomer several times, trying – and failing – to come up with something to say, but every time his eyes were drawn back to that… _void_. Where a face should be.

 

‘ _Well, I guess there are eyes… sort of.’_

If two balls of golden light could be called eyes, that is.

 

Eyes or not, they flared brightly for several seconds, enough so that Sam had to look away for a moment, just in time to see Tron’s eyes glow blue, as if in sympathy. [Identify yourself, program.] [Target is User SamFlynn.]

 

“What’s going on? Who are you?” He asked the obvious questions because hey, they were obvious for a reason – they were relevant.

 

“This is Jin,” Tron answered, reaching a hand out to the staff but not touching it this time. His eyes glowed faintly blue again, focused on Jin whose eyes flared like a brief but powerful flame in response to whatever was going on. [Disengage advisory. Threat level negligible.] [ _User_ or not, his presence is unauthorized.]

 

[I authorized it by bringing him here.]

 

“He is the program that manages the Grid’s archives,” Tron finished eventually, glow fading from his eyes for the moment.

 

“… Uh, nice to meet you,” Sam said after a moment when Jin made no move to lower his staff from Sam’s face.

 

Jin motioned curtly to one side with the staff, and after a moment’s hesitation Sam moved in the indicated direction.

 

_‘I really hope Tron’s chill about this whole thing means this is normal. I mean, it’s good to see another functioning program, but I also don’t want to be beaten up by a crazy guy in a hole in the ground.’_

As Sam was herded over toward a glowing, bench-like slab of furniture, Tron detoured over to examine the nearest of a veritable maze of towering ‘bookshelves’. Each of them was several stories high of white-on-white, circled by unconnected catwalks at each level, crammed claustrophobia-inducingly close on their broad sides while their end sides were so far apart the distance between sections was too far to be jumpable, even for a program.

 

“Jin also protects the archives from unauthorized use,” Tron finally explained, pulling what looked like a sheet of glass off of one of the shelves and flicking through lines of glowing text that appeared across its surface. The lights under Jin’s hood flashed again at Sam as he sat down, casting shadows where Sam was trying very hard not to imagine a severed neck or something, and inspiration struck. [Mishandling of archive data will not be tolerated.]

 

_‘Is he trying to communicate?’_

 

His suspicions were confirmed when Tron’s eyes glowed in response as he spoke aloud this time, as well.

 

[”Users lack that form of input/output, Jin.” User SamFlynn seeks to address system-wide error, and effect repairs.] Tron’s eyes continued glowing after he’d stopped speaking, so Sam tried not to think about what else he might be saying, and instead focused on the odd, tingly feeling from his backside and along the backs of his legs, spreading from where they were in contact with the bench-thing.

 

_‘Man, can’t even eavesdrop on the gossip, here. So not fair.’_

Jin finally lowered the staff, hood tipping to one side as he regarded Tron – curiously, if Sam wanted to guess at the emotion the gesture was trying to convey. Another flare of light. [System-wide error? Clarify.]

 

Tron gestured to the data now arranged onto the glass he held, then offered it to Jin when he walked over. Jin didn’t exactly have eyes that Sam could track the movements of, but he assumed the program was reading over the information.

 

He handed the glass back to Tron, who returned it to the shelf as Jin gave Sam a threatening wave of his staff, eyes glowing bright, before taking off down the narrow aisle at a run, using the staff to pole vault up onto the next level up on the following bookcase-that-wasn’t-really-a-bookcase, before turning out of Sam’s line of sight. [The sooner you leave, the better, User.]

 

“Nice guy,” Sam said after what he hoped was enough time for Jin to be out of earshot.

 

_‘Or whatever the program equivalent is.’_

“Not many visit System Utility 5,” Tron replied, walking over but seeming unwilling to sit down on the bench with him for whatever reason, eyes alert on their surroundings.

 

“I can’t imagine why,” he replied sarcastically, subtly trying to shift over to make room, if that was the issue.

 

_‘Maybe he doesn’t like to sit on the job, or something?’_

Tron, of course, took his comment literally. “Most individuals lack sufficient clearance, and of those that have it, I know of only three that have come here over the Grid’s runtime.”

 

“Oh,” Sam deflated a little. “Over the entire runtime of the Grid?” Tron nodded. “Who?”

 

“You, right now,” Tron replied. “Clu, once, when looking for ways to stabilize the effects of the ISOs’ uncontrolled expansion on the system’s base code, and myself.”

 

_‘And the rest of the time he’s been alone? Aw man, now I feel bad…’_

 

They waited in silence for a while after that; every now and then, Sam caught a glimpse of Jin flitting between the shelves, stopping here and there to examine something or pull out more sheets of glass. What Tron said about the ISOs nagged at Sam, but he figured he’d wait to ask about that later; it didn’t seem like a conversation that he would enjoy having. Waiting in silence was awkward, though, so he fished around for something to say, and, eventually, remembered something.

 

“So, where is the system log you mentioned, before?”

 

A vague clanking sound came from somewhere off in the rows of shelves, but Sam couldn’t see anything.

 

Tron gestured back the way they came, toward the elevator. “Through the door on the opposite side.”

 

Sam blinked at him in surprise. “There was another door there?”

 

Tron nodded again. “You may investigate there while I wait here, if you like; only Users have access there.”

 

Sam thought about that for a moment; it didn’t feel right to split up already, but from what Tron said, that couldn’t be helped.

 

_‘Wait a sec.’_

“Is there a program in there, too?”

 

Tron’s expression fell, and he looked between the doorway and the archive shelves a few times before nodding. “Yes; Yin keeps the system log.”

 

Sam nodded slowly, then stood up. “And they’ve probably never had a visitor?”

 

Tron shook his head ‘no’, and Sam’s mind was made up. “All right, then. I’ll go take a look.”

 

Sam didn’t see Jin appear around the corner of one shelf as he made his way to the door. He watched with laser focus as the User bumbled around for the door lock, desperately peering around him when the door finally _did_ open, and slumped dejectedly when it shut behind him. Without looking away from the door, he caught Tron as the other program collapsed, then laid his frame out over the ETC-slash-cot and returned to the archives.

 

* * *

 

Sam squinted against the sudden brightness as the hidden door before him finally opened, carefully feeling his way forward with each step. The ground beneath his feet sloped steadily downward the farther he went. A deep humming filled the space, completely overriding the sound of the door rezzing back in behind him. Eventually, his eyes began to adjust to the extreme light that seemed to come from pretty much everywhere at once, and he began to see shapes that weren’t just his eyes seeing stars. There was something like a ring-shaped console a few yards in front of him, at what he assumed was the lowest point in the room.

 

At the center of the ring console sat a woman. The edges of her white robes seemed indistinct, blending into the surrounding white of the room. Her face seemed a pale gray, but Sam couldn’t tell for sure with the way the surrounding light seemed to bleach out his eyes.

 

“Welcome, User,” a peculiarly multi-tonal, feminine voice sounded, confirming his suspicions at least partly, and Sam hesitantly raised a hand in greeting, then kept it up to try and shield his eyes afterward.

 

“Uh, hi. I take it you’re Yin?”

 

“Confirmed,” she replied, serenely.

 

“Is there, I don’t know, any way we could dim the lights a little? I can’t see a thing in here.”

 

“Please wait,” Yin replied, followed by a series of soft beeps. Slowly, the all-pervading light dimmed, until Sam could just see the seams between the light panels that made up the boundaries of the room. The floor didn’t exactly slope, as he’d thought; the room was spherical, still white-on-white, with the ceiling/side/floor tiles made up of vaguely flower-shaped arrangements of pentagons ringed in hexagons, with Yin’s ring-shaped console actually partially recessed into one such pentagon at the bottom of the room.

 

_‘This room is like one giant soccer ball…’_

Now that Sam could see more clearly, it was obvious that Yin’s skin was indeed a pale gray, like a living black and white movie. The black and white theme almost continued on into her robes, which were flowing and white, except the thin lines of circuitry that traced along the outfit turned out to be a pale, pale gold color. In place of hair, she wore a tall, almost bullet-shaped headdress marked with circuitry in more… unusual patterns than the ones on her clothes.

 

_‘I think I’ve been silent too long. Crap.’_

“Uh… thanks for that. Yeah.”

 

Yin inclined her head briefly, hands slowly working over the controls around her without looking.

 

“Input command,” she prompted, and Sam scratched at the back of his head.

 

“Uh, _command_? … Oh, wait. You’re asking what I’m, uh, here for? Right?” Yin nodded, so Sam continued. “Okay, so… This place has a log of everything that’s happened in the Grid, so I was wondering… Uh, what’s happened since the last time a User used the portal to leave?”

 

“Compiling data, please wait,” Yin said, then, as if the sort of thing happened all the time, separated each of her arms into two, leaving one pair behind to continue  to leisurely type at the controls in front of her, while the second pair – or were they the originals? – moved much more rapidly over the console to either side of her.

 

_‘Okay. That’s different. That’s... definitely different. First the Headless Horseman, now Pleasantville’s own Indian deity. No sweat. Yeah.’_

Sam couldn’t see where Yin’s arms joined her body because of the design of her robe, but quickly decided that was for the best. There weren’t any chairs in the System Log that he could see, unless Yin was sitting on one, but she just as easily could –

 

_“Nope, not going there.’_

Sam just plopped down where he stood, absently leaning back into the curve of the floor after a while.

 

Soon – **really** soon, actually – a dialogue box opened up slightly to Yin’s side, right in front of Sam, and he stood back up to check it out. Text appeared in a long column starting at the upper left corner of the box, each line annotated with what clearly was some sort of timestamp, though he couldn’t tell what kind just by looking at them himself. The remaining sections of each line seemed to be split between more familiar-looking prompts and requests, and their resulting status updates.

 

_‘That’s not it, or this one, what kind of program is named **that** mess? … This is going to take **forev** – wait! There!’_

Roughly forty lines into his search, Sam saw the name ‘flynn’.

 

‘[1007.5983249251]: flynn@system\: delete\key\admin2\>

[1007.5983272654]: system@flynn\: Target destination?>

[1007.5983299585]: flynn@system\: destination\P\:files\a\admin\CLU\CLU2.0.4.55.782.exe\>

[1007.5983299721]: 4LM4@705.t9424mu5\: run\track42\confirm\>

[1007.5983300113]: system@flynn\: Warning – deleting this file(s) could result in operating system error(s). Continue? (Y/N)>

[1007.5983301555]: flynn@system\: y>

[1007.5983302000]: system@*\: Error code 659. Source: A\:files\system\SystemUtility1\ Looking for solution. . . . .>

[1007.5983302348]: 705.t9424mu5@4LM4\: Error – file not found>

[1007.5983302748]: LaserOutput@system\: run\Logout\>

[1007.5983302800]: CLU2.0.4.55.782@system\: suspend\program\LaserOutput\>

[1027.5983302810]: system@CLU2.0.4.55.782\: Error – insufficient privileges for requested action>

[1007.5983302867]: system@*\: Error code 659. Source: A\:files\system\SystemUtility2\ Looking for solution. . . . .>

[1007.5983303158]: flynn@system\: move\P\:files\a\admin\CLU\>

[1007.5983303865]: RectifierPlatform1@LaserOutput\: run\Logout\>

[1007.5983303953]: LaserOutput@RectifierPlatform1\: Error – insufficient privileges for requested action>

[1007.5983304000]: system@flynn\: Target destination?>

[1007.5983304294]: flynn@system\: destination\P\:files\a\admin\flynn\>

[1007.5983304578]: system@flynn\: Warning – merging this file(s) could result in system infrastructure error(s). Continue? (Y/N)>

[1007.5983305000]: system@*\: Error code 659. Source: A\:files\system\SystemUtility3\ Looking for solution. . . . .>

[1007.5983305248]: flynn@system\: y>

[1007.5983305625]: system@*\: Error code 659. Source: A\:files\system\SystemUtility4\ Looking for solution. . . . .>

[1007.598330600]: system@*\: Critical error – Flynn_OS_S – Insufficient privila5r-y=f45c(j7k5+^t-e($+lc_54i*55+je7. . . . .>

[1007.598330700]: system@*\: Restoring Flynn_OS_S from backup. . . . . Error – bad file, restoring to default. . . . .>

[1007.598330710]: system@*\: B\:AlphaSector\Section1\Light\ Error – offline>

[1007.598330720]: system@*\: B\:AlphaSector\Section1\Directory1\ Error – offline>

[1007.598330730]: system@*\: B\:AlphaSector\Section1\Directory2\ Error – offline>

[1007.598330740]: system@*\: B\:AlphaSector\Section1\Directory3\ Error – offline>

[1007.598330750]: system@*\: B\:AlphaSector\Section1\Recognizer1\ Error – offline>

[1007.598330760]: system@*\: B\:AlphaSector\Section1\Recognizer2\ Error – offline>

 

Sam looked up from the still-growing list, and scrubbed his hands over his face.

 

“Well that sucks.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Artwork for Cameron_McKell](https://archiveofourown.org/works/844518) by [Nizah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nizah/pseuds/Nizah)




End file.
